by Len Levinson
“There's something that I want to talk with you about. I'd like to trade Gootch five horses for the guns and rifles that he took from me. Could you be the go-between?”
“Two horses should be enough.”
The meal continued, and Phyllis became aware that Delgado kept glancing at her. Attention from men was no novelty, but she'd discovered that it could backfire. She knew that Apaches married young and wondered who Delgado's wife was.
A woman with a small boy approached the fire, and it looked like the child whom they'd found beneath the bush. A red bandanna covered the wound on his head as he toddled toward the chief, his grandfather, who clasped him tightly.
Phyllis heard Duane's voice. “Is that the same one?”
“Looks like him.”
Delgado raised his eyes. “It is the same boy.”
“I'm surprised he's up and around so soon.”
“That is because he has not been seen yet by White Eyes doctors.”
The boy seemed steady on his feet but wasn't as sprightly as others his age. The boy whispered something into his grandfather's ear, and the old chief turned him loose. Phyllis watched with mounting curiosity as the boy walked in a direct line toward her. He stopped a few feet away and said something in a child's soft voice.
Delgado provided the translation. “He says he remembers when you were holding him in his arms, like his mother.”
Phyllis reached into her pocket, took out the necklace, and draped it around his neck. He touched the blue stones with his tiny fingers and tears came to his eyes. Then he turned and ran to his grandfather.
A cruel expression came over Delgado's face. “My sister was killed by evil renegades from this tribe. We will find them soon, and that will be the end of them.”
Duane sank his teeth into the slab of meat in his hands, and was hungry enough to eat a horse's hooves. It was tender as beef but tasted the way horses smelled. He sipped sour fermented liquor from a cup, but he'd drunk worse in saloons. “What's this stuff called?” he asked Delgado.
“Tizwin. It is made from corn.”
One of the Apaches jumped to his feet, pointed at Duane, and began an angry tirade. Duane couldn't comprehend the language, but it was clear that the Apache didn't like his dinner companions. The angry Apache turned away abruptly, stormed into the night, and Duane took the cue. “It might be better,” he said to Delgado, “if my woman and I ate by ourselves.”
“You are the guests of our chief. You cannot leave.”
“We didn't kill those people today,” Phyllis explained. “Why was that man so angry?”
“The White Eyes are our enemies,” Delgado replied.
“But we must try to live together in peace.”
“The People can never live in peace with the White Eyes, unless the People live on reservations and become slaves to the White Eyes.”
“Why don't you become farmers and ranchers? There's plenty of land for all of us.”
“You have your lifeway, and we have ours. Why do birds fly, and the rivers flow? The White Eyes goes to church on Sunday, gets down on his knees, and prays for beautiful things. Then the rest of the week he cheats, steals, and makes trouble.”
“Didn't Apache renegades kill those women today?”
Delgado glanced away angrily, and Phyllis decided to let the matter drop. Meanwhile, Duane took another swallow of tizwin and was starting to feel floaty. The huts looked like immense beetles in the light of the moon as stars blazed across the sky. It reminded him of his cowboy job, when they'd sit around a campfire every night, pass the bottle, and talk about horses, war, and the gals they left behind. But the Apaches lived in the open year-round, traveling with the seasons, and the White Eyes threatened their lifeway. These people aren't giving up without a fight, he realized. There'll be blood all over this desert before they're subdued.
The warriors muttered among themselves, and occasionally a woman would add a comment. Several heated remarks were made, and an argument broke out on the far side of the fire. Duane looked at Phyllis daintily placing a piece of horse meat into her mouth. He realized that the tizwin was altering his perceptions, because she looked like the cowgirl madonna, with a golden halo behind her head.
The tizwin produced a different effect from the rotgut whiskey that he'd been drinking since leaving the monastery in the clouds. Lights flashed inside his eyeballs, and Phyllis's body melted into a conglomeration of geometrical shapes. I've drunk too much of this stuff, he realized. I'm really getting plowed under. He felt the need to move his legs, for they were turning into the trunks of trees. “Anybody mind if I take a walk?”
“Do not wander too far away, White Eyes,” Delgado cautioned. “Bears, mountain cats, and rattlesnakes live here, too.”
Duane's feet barely touched the ground as he staggered from the fire. His head felt as though it were disintegrating, and his hands were globules of jelly. I guess you're not supposed to drink tizwin like water, he said to himself. He made his way beyond the perimeter of wickiups and examined the ground for snakes, scorpions, and lizards. Then he sat cross-legged and gazed at jagged outlines of mountain ranges in the distance. The Apaches were on a collision course with civilization and their lifeway would be eradicated soon. Regardless of how hard they fought, there wasn't enough of them to stop America.
Duane couldn't help admiring the indomitable spirit of the Apaches, and if they committed atrocities, so did the White Eyes. Duane had read the story of the famous massacre at the Santa Rita Mine, where white men invited the Apaches to a banquet, and while the Indians were dining, the civilized gentlemen opened fire with cannon at close range, killing men, women, and babies. Bloodshed had increased on both sides ever since. If I were an Apache, Duane thought, I'd fight back, too. At the monastery, he'd spent his life analyzing God's creation from every conceivable view. There were worlds beyond worlds, and then came the Apaches, the most ferocious Indians in North America according to the soldiers who fought them. Duane became aware of a presence behind him and saw the old man with the half-closed eye standing behind him. Duane rose, reaching for his empty holster, alarmed by the sudden appearance.
“Sit,” the old man said.
Duane did as he was told, and the old man dropped opposite him, gazing into his eyes. Two rays of light penetrated Duane's mind, making him dizzy. He waited for the old man to speak.
“You have a warrior's heart,” the Apache said in a deep voice. “But you are dumb. I am a di-yin, and my name is Cucharo. Was your grandfather Apache?”
Duane was taken aback by the question. “I was an orphan, and I don't know anything about my grandparents. What's a di-yin?”
“A medicine man.”
The old man's belly was flat as a young warrior's, his limbs were sinewy, and Duane had never seen such a vital-looking old man.
“You do not know how to fight,” Cucharo said sadly, shaking his head slowly in disapproval. “You make big noise and run straight at your enemy. He has plenty time to get ready and then you jump on him. It is a miracle Gootch did not kill you.” Cucharo stretched his bony fingers forward and pinched Duane's arm. “You are not healthy, but I will help you. The mountain spirits have sent you to me—I do not know why. They say that I must teach you to be a warrior.”
Duane was astonished by the declaration. “Who are the mountain spirits?”
“They are everywhere, but we cannot see them. You have come to me in a dream. Tomorrow at dawn, you be at my wickiup. I will tell you everything.”
The old man limped away, and Duane pondered his words. Am I part Apache? he wondered.
He had vague recollections of his mother, who'd had blond curls and liked to cuddle him. His father had worn a black mustache and smelled of whiskey and tobacco. Duane recalled playing with his father's gun, but he'd arrived at the monastery when he was approximately one year old, so how much had he imagined?
Duane knew little about his background but now had something new to contemplate. Maybe my father was part Apache
, and that's why I feel an affinity for these people. The medicine man saw me in a dream? A shiver ran up his spine at the mere thought of the old man with the scarred face. He's probably killed a hundred White Eyes, and maybe I'm next on his list.
Duane heard another step behind him. It was Phyllis, approaching with her cup of tizwin. “I think they've put something in my drink.”
“It's their whiskey. Have a seat.”
She dropped to the ground beside him, and he placed his arm around her shoulders. “I'll bet you never realized, when you first met me, that we'd end up at an Apache camp.”
“I feel strange, Duane. There's something about these people.”
“The old man with the scar said he's been dreaming about me, and he's going to teach me to be a warrior. He thinks I'm part Apache.”
She looked at him in the moonlight, and he had the same straight jet-black hair as they, with high cheekbones and almond eyes. “Come to think of it, you do look kind of Apache. I hope you don't intend to spend a lot of time here.”
“Only be a few days, like the chief said. There's nothing to worry about, I hope.”
“Have you ever thought that they're playing with us, like cats and mice?”
“Don't let your imagination run away with you. I think they've been good hosts so far.”
She imagined Duane wearing a breechcloth, with a red line painted across his nose and a red bandanna on his head. “That Delgado scares me half to death. I never saw a more shifty-eyed injun in my life.”
“He seems friendly enough to me.”
“I think they're all acting and they're getting ready to massacre us.”
“Maybe you drank too much of that tizwin. I know that I did. Jesus, it's a beautiful night. I can't help envying these people, Phyllis. They're not worried about owning houses, herding cattle, or buying beans. They run free, like a herd of mustangs, without a worry in the world.”
“Apaches have been killing Mexicans, Americans, and other Indians for hundreds of years. Have you forgotten what happened to your throat?”
Duane touched his finger to the wound. “If I knew how to fight like an Apache, he wouldn't've defeated me so easily.”
“They look down on us,” Phyllis complained. “When the time comes, they'll kill us without a qualm.”
Delgado materialized behind them. “I've brought your guns.”
They wondered how long he'd been standing behind them and how much he'd overheard. He sat opposite them and laid the pistols, rifles, and saddlebags on the ground.
Duane and Phyllis strapped on their Colts, and Delgado watched them curiously. Duane opened the saddlebags, and his extra cartridges were intact. None of his personal belongings were missing, and he didn't feel quite so naked anymore. “I was talking with Cucharo before. He thinks I'm part Apache. What do you think of that, Delgado?”
“Cucharo is a famous medicine man among us. If he says you are part Apache, he is probably right. But Apache is not what we call ourselves. We are the People, and the White Eyes are trying to snuff us out. There will be much blood on this land, I am certain of it.”
“We must make peace together, before things get that far.”
“It is already too late, White Eyes.”
“But Jesus Christ said that we must love each other.”
“Is that the one who rose from the dead? How can anyone believe such a thing?”
“It's no stranger than your mountain spirits.”
Delgado suddenly appeared angry. He leaned toward Duane, pointed at his nose, and said, “You best be careful what you say about the mountain spirits. We owe everything to them, and to Yusn.”
“Who is Yusn?”
“He is the Great Spirit.”
“Where did he come from?”
Delgado shook his head impatiently. “No one knows these things.”
Phyllis said to Delgado, “Why is it that you act as if I'm not even here?”
“Because you are his woman.”
“Does that mean I don't exist?”
“It is not good to look at another man's woman. The People are not the White Eyes. It is getting late, and I will take you to your wickiup.”
Duane and Phyllis slung their saddlebags over their shoulders and followed Delgado across the camp. Little children ran among the campfires as their elders sat eating, drinking, and plotting the destruction of the renegades.
Delgado approached a wickiup near the center of the camp. “This is yours.”
“We don't want to take somebody's home,” Phyllis protested. “We can ...”
Delgado didn't pay any attention to her. He looked pointedly at Duane and said, “Good night.”
Then the Apache warrior walked off, leaving Duane and Phyllis in front of their new home. Duane dropped to his knees and peeked inside the door. It was pitch-black, so he lit a match. No lantern or candle was inside, animal skins lay over the dirt floor, and it smelled leathery, with the faint odor of tobacco in the air. He crawled all the way in, and Phyllis followed on her hands and knees. They could see the stars through a smoke hole in the curved roof.
“I'm afraid of these people,” Phyllis said as she pulled off her boots. “My father told me a story once about a bunch of Apaches who became friendly with some Mexicans, and when the Mexicans relaxed, the Apaches slaughtered them.”
Duane tossed his hat on top of the saddlebags, yanked off his boots, and unstrapped his holster. Then he formed a pillow out of the saddlebags, placed his gun close at hand, and grabbed for his future wife.
They sank into the animal fur, grasping at each other's bodies. He unbuttoned her blouse, while she reached for his belt. They rolled naked over the fur, making wild scratching love. The fierce spirit of the Apaches inspired the White Eyes, as life renewed itself high in the mountains of Texas.
Lieutenant Dawes strode across his little post, showing himself to the troopers. At West Point they'd taught him that discipline was maintained when the men saw their officers sharing the same hardships as they. It was dark, and the men were preparing for Taps. Some washed pots and pans, others repaired harnesses, a few cleaned their carbines, and a special detail tended the horses. Four guards were posted, to make sure Indians didn't steal anything. The moment you dropped your guard, that's when they attacked.
A group of troopers hammered a broken wheel and laughed as Dawes passed. The lieutenant suspected that they were making a joke at his expense, but he realized that he'd behaved stupidly when he'd met the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine one day, married her a week later, and split apart from her approximately ten days after that. He'd probably laugh if someone had told him the same story about another officer.
Lieutenant Dawes felt humiliated by what he'd done. He came from a distinguished old army family, but he had behaved like a madman. The former Miss Vanessa Fontaine had appeared when he'd been lonely, and in his deluded vanity, he'd thought he swept her off her feet. But now he knew that it was the other way around. Basically, she'd figured he was the best ticket in town.
Lieutenant Dawes passed a smirking trooper polishing his boots, and he looked vaguely like a Gypsy. The frontier army got all the world's rejects who couldn't or wouldn't find ordinary careers. It was rumored that a substantial number were wanted for committing crimes. Lieutenant Dawes believed that he was losing his grip on them. They don't respect me, soon they'll defy me, and possibly one of them will try to shoot me—all because I married that crazy woman.
He felt as though he should exact vengeance, although he knew that she hadn't done anything wrong except act in her own self-interest. I should've been more sensible, but I was unhappy and she was so lovely. He remembered burning nights in her arms, with her elegant legs wrapped around him. They'd got on fairly well in their ordinary domestic life, except she wouldn't stop praising a certain sadistic little killer. That was when Lieutenant Dawes had realized that his golden goddess had feet of clay. How could she not see through the facade of the Pecos Kid? Dawes had disliked Duane Braddock from the
moment they'd first met, but every woman wanted to mother him, and older men tried to play big brother, choosing not to see his destructive spiteful nature.
But Braddock was still on the loose, as dangerous to the citizens of Texas as the Apaches. Maybe I should take the men out on a scout and see if we can track the little bastard down. The odds are that the Apaches have killed him, but maybe not. I'd love to see the look on Vanessa's face if I could bring back Duane Braddock in shackles and chains.
He altered his direction and made his way toward the tent of Sergeant Mahoney. That gentleman, a former resident of the notorious Five Points neighborhood in New York City, reclined near his fire, smoking his corncob pipe. He had a thick, drooping red mustache, a red nose, and a chin like the prow of a ship. Upon hearing footsteps, he raised himself to a sitting position.
“You don't have to get up,” said Dawes, dropping to one knee beside him. “We're going out on a scout tomorrow morning after mess. Bring enough food and supplies for an indefinite period.”
“But we just came back from a scout, sir!”
“And now we're going on another one. I've just given you a direct order, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Mahoney grimaced as he puffed on his pipe. “Sir, there's somethin’ that you don't understand. You been a-pushin’ the men pretty hard, and there ain't a damn thing to do in Shelby ‘cept get drunk. I think you oughtta let ‘em rest awhile, otherwise yer liable to have a problem on yer hands.”
Lieutenant Dawes raised his eyebrows. “Rest?” he inquired. “This is the Fourth Cavalry, not a resort. Our mission is to keep the Apaches under control, and the best way to do that is to go where they are and let them know that we're not tolerating their foolishness.”
“But, sir,” Sergeant Mahoney pleaded, “even soldiers got to sleep, refit, and let the horses fatten a little. Mark my words—if you take the men on another scout so soon, you'll have a rebellion on your hands.”
