Apache Moon

by Len Levinson

  “I'm still in command here, Sergeant. See that you carry my orders out, unless you're ready to give up those stripes.”

  Lieutenant Dawes walked back toward his tent, hands clasped firmly behind his back. He dominated thirty-odd men through the authority of his shoulder straps and the strength of his will, with no one to back him up except Sergeant Mahoney. But Lieutenant Dawes was big, strong, skilled in the use of weapons, and relatively fearless. He believed that he'd prevail in the end because that's what they'd taught him at West Point.

  He arrived at his tent, lit the lamp, and spread out his map. The Pecos Kid and Phyllis Thornton would go straight through Apache territory to Mexico. If I swing far east and then turn due west, maybe I can cut their trail, he pondered. Or maybe they'll be holed up somewhere, surrounded by Apaches, and be glad to see the Fourth Cavalry riding toward them. It's worth a try.

  Lieutenant Dawes's lamp burned long into the night as he studied his map and plotted the capture of the man who'd destroyed his marriage.

  Marshal Dan Stowe sat erectly in his saddle, peering into shadows for signs of danger as he rode through the endless sprawling night. He was determined that nothing and no one would take him by surprise, for he'd learned during the war that alertness spells the difference between victory and defeat.

  Hunting outlaws was the most exciting civilian pastime he knew, because outlaws shot back, providing special ironies. He speculated that one day he'd find an outlaw just a little smarter than he, or the Apaches would get him and gouge out his eyes. It's my job to bring in the Pecos Kid—that's all I know. And if I find that girl, so much the better.

  In his drowsy dreamlike state, he saw the castles of Northumbria rising out of the sea, with knights on horseback and ladies wearing long veils. I'll go to Stonehenge and pray with wizards of antiquity, and maybe I'll sail a boat to the Isle of Wight, or visit Glasgow, Shetland, and Sussex. My dreams'll come true when I get that two thousand dollars, and to hell with everything else.

  Vanessa Dawes sat in her parlor, sipping whiskey diluted with water, while staring out the window at the open range basking in moonlight. Boring day followed boring day, and she was becoming restless, particularly at night when she was alone. With her defenses down, she contemplated possibilities that she was able to avoid during the day, when she had to present a bright face to the world.

  Vanessa Dawes appeared elegant, sophisticated, and cultured to the tip of her toes, but she was deeply troubled beneath her fashionable shell. I'm thirty-one, alone, virtually penniless, and relying on a divorce settlement to spring me out of this damned town.

  She hated Shelby and all that it stood for, which wasn't much in her estimation. Everybody knew everybody's business, and she'd become the notorious woman because she'd arrived in town with Duane Braddock, married Lieutenant Dawes a week later, and now was filing for divorce. It was difficult for the provincials to understand, and she wasn't sure that she understood.

  This is what happens to a woman who listens to her heart instead of her mind, she lectured herself. If I ever marry again, it'll be for dollars. I'll go where rich men congregate—Austin, San Francisco, or even New York—and find one for myself, the older and sicker the better, and when he dies, I'll become a merry widow. Or maybe I'll just give it all to Duane Braddock, if he'll come back to me.

  Vanessa Dawes was obsessed with money, because a woman with no resources could end up a prostitute in the Last Chance Saloon. She'd been raised in opulence, the only daughter of a wealthy planter, but then the War of Northern Aggression broke out, her brother was killed in action at Antietam, the family plantation was destroyed, her father died of the catarrh, and her mother of sorrow shortly thereafter.

  South Carolina had been taken over by carpetbaggers and scalawags, she had no home, and all she could do was drift west, singing songs of old Dixie in saloons and taverns where Confederate veterans congregated. It hadn't been much of a living, and several men had taken advantage of her susceptibilities during her travels, but finally she'd ended up in Texas, and that's where she'd met Duane Braddock.

  She'd committed certain indiscretions with Duane, but he'd been too beautiful to resist. The initial passion wore off when she realized that he was as impoverished as she, with no decent prospects, and their life together would be hardscrabble poverty. Shortly thereafter, she'd met Lieutenant Dawes. He'd looked splendid in a uniform, and his prospects were excellent, but he was the jealous type, and she soon grew tired of being persecuted.

  The West Pointer had been a flash in the pan, but the Pecos Kid often came to mind in the dark of night as she prepared for bed. He'd been fun and helped her forget the misfortunes of the moment. A woman can't expect more than that from a man, she deduced.

  But you're nothing without money, she reminded herself, and Lieutenant Dawes had offered the life of an officer's wife, far better than the poverty of a common cowboy like Duane Braddock. She'd made the determination with her mind, not her heart, which always would belong to Duane Braddock.

  I'm getter older every minute, she reminded herself, and it's time to make use of whatever ammunition I have left. I don't want to be a toothless old crone begging for nickels in dark alleyways. She shuddered at the mere thought and hugged herself. As soon as I receive my divorce settlement, my hunt shall commence. I'll never marry again save for money, and when the old son of a bitch dies, then I'll buy myself anything I want, including maybe Duane Braddock.

  CHAPTER 4

  DAWN APPEARED THROUGH THE SMOKE hole as Duane opened his eyes. He smelled animal skins, heard a dog bark, and felt naked Phyllis snuggle against him. Wind rustled the outer branches of the wickiup as she stirred. “Where are you going?” she asked sleepily.

  “I have to see Cucharo. He's going to teach me how to be an Apache warrior.”

  She rubbed her eyes as he dressed in the darkness. “Fighting is all you care about,” she complained. “You wouldn't get into so much trouble if you were more peaceful.”

  “If I let people push me around, you'd leave me for sure.”

  “No, I wouldn't. If there's one thing in life that you can rely on, that's me.”

  He didn't say anything, because the former Vanessa Fontaine had made the identical remark before running off with the overzealous Lieutenant Dawes. Duane strapped on his gun, then leaned forward and kissed her right nipple. “Stay out of trouble,” he whispered.

  Then he was out the door and nearly bumped into Cucharo sitting before the wickiup. “You are late,” the medicine man intoned.

  Duane stared at him in disbelief as the first sliver of sun appeared over the mountains. How'd this arthritic old fogy get so close without me hearing him?

  “Follow me,” said Cucharo.

  Duane pulled his hat tightly on his head and walked beside the medicine man. They soon found themselves on the open land, moving away from the camp. Duane realized that the old man was spry and limber as he dodged Spanish bayonet cactus plants. It was all Duane could do to keep up as sharp thorns tore his pants and shirt. The sun rose higher in the sky as Duane and Cucharo proceeded toward a steep-cliffed canyon. A roadrunner cut in front of them like a gentleman in a suit hurrying to his office, while a flock of bobwhite quails flew overhead.

  Cucharo stopped suddenly. “You are so slow,” he said reproachfully.

  “I generally ride a horse,” Duane alibied.

  “You must keep your body strong, because someday you might not have a horse. Are you hungry?”

  “We should've brought food with us, and I'm getting thirsty, too.”

  Cucharo pulled a plant out of the ground, dusted off the bulbous root, and took a bite. Then he handed the plant to Duane, who looked at it suspiciously. It tasted remotely like a potato. Cucharo dusted the spines off a yucca fruit and handed it to Duane. Then the medicine man dug a hole in the dry sand. At the depth of approximately one foot, cloudy water appeared at the bottom.

  “The White Eyes want to tell us how to live, but we know more than them.�
� Cucharo gathered more food, while Duane munched on his impromptu breakfast. He'd never realized that food was available in such abundance in the desert. What's so great about living in a house when you can roam through the mountains like an Apache?

  Cucharo sat opposite him, and they dined as the sun cleared away the morning clouds. A hummingbird floated in front of a yellow cactus blossom and sipped nectar. The peace and silence reminded Duane of the monastery in the clouds.

  “Yusn has given us everything we need,” Cucharo said. “Look up—do you see the stars?”

  Duane pushed back the wide brim of his cowboy hat and looked at the blue sky. “You can't see stars during the day.”

  “The warrior trains his eyes by looking at stars during the daytime. Go ahead—try.”

  Duane stared at the sky, saw dots before his eyes, but they weren't stars. He exerted his vision and felt a headache coming on. “It's impossible to see stars during the day.”

  “What the White Eyes can't do himself, he thinks is impossible. The White Eyes has such small spirit.”

  “Maybe we can't see the stars during the day, but we have our own education.”

  Cucharo shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “What education?”

  Duane darted to the side, spun around, and went for his Colt. The thunder of gunfire rolled across the desert, and Cucharo dived toward the ground. Duane shot the arm off a cholla cactus, the flower off a dumpling cactus, the fruit off a prickly pear cactus, and drilled a hole in the middle of a golden rainbow cactus.

  The air filled with gunsmoke as the shots echoed off the mountains. Cucharo raised himself, eyes like saucers. Duane reloaded his Colt, waiting for a compliment from Cucharo, but the medicine man said nothing. Instead he sat down and continued his breakfast.

  They completed the meal in silence. Duane believed that Cucharo and the other Apaches had contempt for him, and he was determined to prove himself. When the food was gone, Cucharo rose. “Come with me.”

  Duane followed him deeper into the valley, with sharp cliffs and ridges on both sides. A raven flew overhead, searching for carrion, while the sun reflected off light sand, making colors extremely vivid. The desert pulsated with radiance, and Duane wondered if last night's tizwin was coming back to haunt him.

  Cucharo stopped suddenly again. “What do you see?”

  “Dirt, plants, the usual stuff.”

  Cucharo smiled haughtily, then clapped his hands once. Duane jumped two feet in the air and reached for his gun as creatures erupted from the ground all around him. Cucharo grabbed Duane's gun hand, and the Pecos Kid blinked in astonishment at seventeen Apache children covered with dirt. They'd buried themselves in the ground, waiting for Cucharo's signal.

  “You are blind,” Cucharo said, “but I must do what the mountain spirits say. Before you can be a warrior, you must strengthen your body. We start when we are young, so I will leave you with the children. I hope you can keep up with them.”

  Cucharo stepped backward, a crooked smile on his face, then he dodged behind a thicket and was gone. Duane found himself with Apache boys from five to fourteen, wearing breechcloths, knee-high moccasins, covered with dirt, and grinning at the success of their trick. A little boy said to Duane, “Come with us, White Eyes.”

  They turned and began to walk. Duane joined them, confident that he could keep up with mere children, Apaches or not. Then the boys broke into a trot, and Duane stretched his legs. The children darted among cactus plants, laughing and shouting to each other. Duane took deep breaths as he marveled at the vigor in the children's legs. He'd spent his childhood studying theology, whereas they ran wild like coyotes.

  The floor of the valley inclined as Duane and the boys headed up the side of a mountain. Duane gasped heavily through his mouth but didn't dare fall behind. It was one thing to be humiliated by a mature warrior and another to be bested by children. The mountain became steeper, and Duane's tongue hung out as he struggled to maintain the pace. The boys taunted, laughed, and ridiculed him. If they can do it, so can I, he told himself grimly. If this is what I have to do to be as strong as an Apache, I'll give it my best.

  The boot of his toe found a gopher hole, he lost his balance and raised his hands to prevent his face from crashing into the ground. As soon as he landed, little hands plucked at his clothes, helping him to his feet, and little eyes danced with delight. Duane righted himself as the children ran off again, heading toward the summit. No matter what happens, I can't let them outrun me, he thought to himself. Taking a deep breath, he trudged after them. The children ascended the mountain rapidly, their laughter riding the breeze, while the White Eyes rampaged behind them like a tired old buffalo.

  Phyllis slept after Duane left and was awakened an hour later by children talking loudly near her wickiup. Other sounds of the Apache camp came to her, and she opened her eyes. My first full day with the People, she realized. She still felt sleepy, but curiosity got the better of her. She put on her cowboy clothes, pulled on her riding boots, adjusted her range rider’s hat, and poked her head outside. A little boy was standing there, and he held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  Phyllis emerged from the tent. Women nearby rubbed a gooey substance into antelope hides, while more women cooked in pots. Some of the women carried babies in cradleboards tied to their backs. One warrior glued feathers to an arrow, while another chewed a length of sinew. The campsite was the scene of many activities as the boy led her to the old chief’s campfire.

  “Sit,” the boy said.

  Phyllis dropped to the ground, wondering what would happen next. She wished Duane hadn’t left her alone among warriors who looked as though they were removing her clothing with their eyes. Her gun gave her a feeling of security as her stomach rumbled with hunger.

  A young Apache woman emerged from a nearby wickiup, carrying a wicker bowl. She placed the bowl before Phyllis and said, “Eat.”

  The bowl contained roots and other vegetable matter that Phyllis had never seen before. She picked up something that looked like a radish and sniffed it tentatively.

  The Apache woman smiled coolly. “Do not worry, White Eyes girl. We will not poison you.”

  How do I know that? Phyllis wondered as she sank her teeth into the root. The Apache woman was approximately twenty-five, with high cheekbones and Oriental eyes. Her hair was wavy, parted in the middle, flowing to her shoulders, and held in place with a red bandanna.

  “My name is Huera,” she said. “I am the third wife of Delgado.”

  Third wife? Phyllis asked herself. “How many wives does he have altogether?”

  “Four.”

  “Don’t you get jealous of each other?”

  Huera smiled. “What for?”

  “Don’t you want him all to yourself?”

  “The more wives, the less work. But only a rich warrior can have many wives. Most warriors have only one wife. But you do not have to do any work while you are here, White Eyes girl. We will take care of you.”

  “I don’t mind work,” Phyllis said. “I’ve been working all my life. What do women do?”

  “We build the wickiups, cook the food, make the baskets and jugs, work the skins of animals, take care of the children, and make the clothes.”

  “What do the men do?”

  “Hunt, fight, go on raids, and make their weapons.”

  Phyllis could understand better why additional wives would be welcome in a wickiup. It sounded like hard work from dawn to dusk, not unlike ranch wives. Americans were permitted one wife per household, but a wealthy man could hire maids. Was it that different from the Apache lifeway? “Don’t you get jealous when your husband sleeps with his other wives?”

  Huera waved her hand dismissively. “What for?”

  Phyllis wondered how a person could say such a thing. If Duane slept with someone else, it would be the most terrible betrayal imaginable. Is it possible for a man to love four wives? Phyllis wondered. She remembered the previous night, when she and Duane had languished in ea
ch other’s arms. She’d been a virgin until a week ago, but now it was a new world.

  Delgado loomed before her, wearing only his breechcloth, moccasin boots, and headband, muscles rippling in the sun. He peered intently at her, and his energy spiked her brain. She was certain that he knew what she’d been thinking. Delgado turned away, grabbed Huera’s arm, and muttered a command in Apache.

  Huera didn’t resist as she let Delgado pull her toward a wickiup. He pushed her inside and then he looked significantly at Phyllis. He entered the wickiup as Phyllis bit into a sweet and sour prickly fruit. He’s trying to tell me something, and I think I know what it is.

  She sipped water from a jug as the sun warmed her clothes. She wished she could take a bath and wondered what had happened to Duane. She’d been warned about Apaches all her life and now was living among them. Somehow they didn’t seem so bad . . . yet.

  She looked around the encampment, where women and men performed their specialized tasks and small children ran about like happy puppies. These are people who massacre white folks every chance they get, she realized.

  Phyllis heard an ominous moan issue from the wickiup where Delgado had dragged Huera, and Phyllis’s ears turned red as she realized what Delgado and Huera were doing. Delgado had grabbed Huera as if she were his personal property, and Phyllis felt revolted by the sounds issuing from the wickiup, yet somehow it stimulated her lurid imagination. She imagined handsome Delgado dragging her into a wickiup, and it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Her hand trembled as she bit another root. Don’t even think about it, she counseled herself. It can only lead to trouble, and I’m a good Christian girl, or am I?

  The cavalry detachment was lined in two ranks before Lieutenant Dawes, with two wagons of supplies to the right. The men sat erectly in their saddles, campaign hats slanted low over their eyes. They’d barely returned from their last scout but now were going out again. Hatred for their commanding officer radiated from their beings as they awaited his orders.