by Len Levinson
Lieutenant Dawes inspected them coolly from beneath the brim of his campaign hat. They weren’t the best soldiers in the world, but they were all he had. He’d fought Indians in the past with such men, and they seemed to do best when their lives were in the most danger.
Sergeant Mahoney rode closer, the front of his campaign hat turned up for better vision. He saluted smartly and said, “The detachment is ready to move out, sir.”
Lieutenant Dawes returned the salute. “Detachment—right face! Forward hoooooo!”
War equipment jangled, and horses’ hooves thudded as the detachment moved toward the open range. Lieutenant Dawes touched his spurs to the flanks of his horse, and the animal trotted toward the front of the formation. He took his position as leader of the detachment, his horse slowed, and he bounced up and down in the saddle.
He’d planned a longer scout than usual, but the men didn’t know it yet. Just the thing to toughen them up, he told himself. He expected complaints and resistance as the days wore on but felt certain that he could handle them. They’ll respect me more when this is over, because my endurance usually is outstanding.
In the recent past, whenever he went on a scout, his wife, Vanessa, had come to see him off. She and the children of the town had applauded as the soldiers passed, but now Vanessa spent her days in their former house, waiting for the divorce to become final, and the children had become bored with the Fourth Cavalry.
Lieutenant Dawes led the detachment in a southwesterly direction as he reflected upon his former wife. She was extraordinary on the outside but vain, selfish, argumentative, and impractical on the inside. There has to be something wrong with a woman of thirty-one who’d run off with an eighteen-year-old killer.
Lieutenant Dawes remembered the first time he’d met Braddock. It had been in Gibson’s General Store, and the Kid had just found out that Vanessa was going to marry the U.S. Army officer. Dawes had thought Braddock was going to shoot him in cold blood, but instead the Pecos Kid had stormed away without drawing his Colt. He obviously was afraid of me, Lieutenant Dawes figured.
I know he’s out there somewhere, probably lost, with an arrow sticking out of his ass. If he’s alive, I’ll find him, and if he’s not, at least the troopers will get some practical experience in desert living. As the old sergeants say, the men aren’t happy unless they’re complaining.
Dizzy with fatigue, Duane staggered to the top of the hill. The little boys pointed their fingers at him, laughing gleefully. Coughing, spitting, he tripped over his boots and dropped heavily to the ground, gulping air. He had pain in his chest, the heat was making him delirious, and he felt nauseous.
The little boys pulled him to his feet. “No rest now,” one said. “Come on, weak White Eyes. Do not let the mountain lion get you.”
They punched him with little hands and kicked him with tiny feet. Duane felt ashamed to be in such terrible physical condition, so he forced himself to his feet. The children were already speeding down the hill, jumping over obstacles, giggling happily.
Duane unbuttoned his shirt, then loosened the bandanna around his neck. His black cowboy hat attracted sunlight, perspiration dripped down his cheeks, and he struggled to follow the little boys. I’m going to die, he thought, gulping air frantically. I’ll never be an Apache or anything else, but I hope they give me a decent burial.
Phyllis wondered what to do with herself after breakfast. The other women seemed unwilling to come close, although they continuously shot glances in her direction, not all friendly. Phyllis felt as if she were unwelcome, useless, and pointless.
It annoyed her that Duane had left her alone, but she couldn’t expect him to be her father. The Apache camp was outlandish, and she didn’t know what was expected of her. She decided to sit tight and wait until something happened. The exuberant mating ritual had long since subsided in the nearby wickiup, and Phyllis wondered what was going on now. Delgado had four wives, and whenever he wanted one, evidently he just dragged her into the nearest wickiup. It was the strangest thing that Phyllis had ever seen, but no one seemed to think it unusual, although everyone could hear what had transpired.
Phyllis realized that she knew little about Indians, although she’d been hearing about them all her life. I should study them, and if I ever get out of here, I can teach Americans about how Apaches live, what they eat, what they wear, and how they treat their wives.
A figure appeared in the entrance of the wickiup: Huera coming outside. She walked toward Phyllis with a certain loose gait, and her face glowed with an inner light. She appeared pleased with herself as she sat beside Phyllis. “Have you enough to eat?”
Phyllis stared at the young Apache woman in confusion, for she seemed to show no shame for what she’d done. The walls of a wickiup were just antelope skins and a few sticks, and sound carried easily from one end of the camp to another. “I’m not hungry anymore, but isn’t there something I can do to help out?”
“Today we are fixing skins, but the work might be too hard for a White Eyes girl.”
There it was again, the Apache condescension that was getting on Phyllis’s nerves. “If you can do it, I can do it,” she declared.
“Stay here, and I will bring you a skin.”
Huera walked toward the side of the wickiup, where animal skins were stacked. She selected one, filled a pot with goop, and carried both to Phyllis. Then she sat, poured some of the goop on the smooth side of the hide, and worked it with her fingers. “This is how we do it,” she explained.
“What’s in the pot?”
“Brains mixed with fat.”
The mixture looked disgusting, its fragrance bordered on horrific, and Phyllis nearly gagged.
“If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” Huera said.
Phyllis rolled up her sleeves and wondered whose brains they were. Then she took a deep breath, plunged her hands into the pot, scooped up some of the substance, and dumped it onto the skin, which she proceeded to massage. The substance was slimy and stinky, and Phyllis wondered who had dreamed up the Apache method of curing skins. Perspiration soaked her shirt as she remembered the line from Genesis: Ye shall earn thy bread by the sweat of thy brow.
“Delgado told me that he likes you,” Huera said playfully. “He said he liked to think of you, while he was with me.”
Phyllis was astonished by this tidbit of news, and all she could say was “I’ll bet that made you feel real good.”
“The more wives, the less work.”
“I don’t believe you, because I don’t think we’re that different, Huera. I’ll bet you must be a little jealous.”
“Men go from one woman to another like dogs. You cannot expect much from them.”
Would Duane be unfaithful to me? Phyllis wondered. But Duane had been raised in a monastery and possessed high moral values, although he’d lived with the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, and God only knew how many others. Phyllis even had speculated occasionally about her own father, when he returned from business trips with the smell of whiskey about him. He and Phyllis’s mother would argue for days afterward. “I guess you can never be sure of any man,” Phyllis admitted.
“How long have you been with yours?” Huera asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I’ve known him for about a month.”
“He is very handsome, but Gootch nearly killed him yesterday. I do not think he will make a good husband, because he has no strength in his arms.”
“Never underestimate a cowboy.”
Huera spat into the dirt. “Cowboys ride on horses all day and think it’s work. But he is very pretty. Almost like a girl.”
“It sounds as if you’re interested in him.”
“I do not think that your man could feed two people, but maybe he is a good crook.”
“Why do Apaches take things that don’t belong to them? It’s not very nice.”
“I could say the same thing about the White Eyes, for you are stealing our land. If you were not protected
by our chief, you would be Delgado’s slave right now, and your man would be food for the buzzards. Delgado could do whatever he wanted with you, and you would love it. You do not fool me one bit, White Eyes girl. I have seen the way you look at Delgado. You want him, but you won’t admit it.”
“You’re jealous, but you won’t admit that. Well, don’t worry about it. I’m not interested in your husband.”
Phyllis would have difficulty explaining what happened next. One moment she was arguing with Huera and the next moment she was on her back, her left arm pinned by Huera’s right hand, her right arm held down by Huera’s knee, and a knife pressed against her throat. “This is not the White Eyes world,” Huera hissed through her teeth. “Be careful what you say or I will kill you.”
Huera let Phyllis up, and Phyllis was shocked. Never had she been involved in physical violence before. The attack had been sudden, vicious, and had incapacitated her instantly. She looked at Huera, who calmly rubbed brains into the hide that lay before her. Phyllis was tempted to whip out her Colt and blow Huera’s head off. I’ll be ready for you next time, Phyllis thought. You’ll never take me by surprise again.
Duane and the boys returned to the camp at noon. The boys were tired but still happy, while Duane stumbled over his feet as he made his way to his wickiup. He crawled inside, rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes.
He’d never been so drained in his life. It was as though weights were fastened to his arms and legs, holding him to the earth. His chest heaved, and he thought he was going to die. Now he knew why seventy-year-old Cucharo had so much vitality. Apaches spent their lives running up and down mountains.
Phyllis entered the wickiup and looked with concern at his face. “Are you all right?”
His green features and wheezing respirations told the story.
She took his hand. “You’d better eat something. Come to the fire.”
“Let me die in peace.”
“The Apaches say we’re inferior, and now you’re proving it.”
Duane groaned as he rolled to his knees. He followed Phyllis out of the wickiup and made his way to the fire, where Delgado sat with his four wives and numerous children, some of whom had been running Duane ragged all morning. He collapsed near the fire as Phyllis whipped out her Bowie knife. She cut a chunk of meat off the mule deer roasting on a spit and handed it to Duane. He dug his teeth in, feeling like a cross between a wolf and a wildcat. Phyllis passed him a canteen of water; he drank deeply, then cut the next strip himself and stuffed it into his mouth. A tremendous desert hunger yawned inside him, which he had to satiate.
Delgado and his wives held a conversation among themselves, glancing at Phyllis and Duane and chuckling. Phyllis was tired of being ridiculed by the Apaches, and Duane had taught her the classic fast draw, not to mention a few other neat gun tricks. But she couldn’t defeat them all. Apache gratitude was wearing off, and the savages were becoming more openly contemptuous of them.
Huera sat at the right of Delgado and whispered something into his ear. Delgado glanced at Phyllis, then averted his eyes quickly. Something amused him, and he smiled. Phyllis found his manner presumptuous, as if he thought he could drag her into a wickiup and she’d thank him afterward. You ever lay a hand on me, my fine Apache friend, and I’ll put one right between your eyes.
Duane and Phyllis returned to their wickiup and sat on animal skins beneath the circular column of light admitted by the smoke hole. Duane’s strength returned, and he wanted to play with Phyllis until the medicine man came, but she appeared out of sorts. He frequently experienced difficulty deciphering her moods, for she could be happy one moment and cranky the next, whereas he was more even-tempered, or so he thought. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t trust these people,” she replied. “No matter how you look at it, we’re enemies. I wish we could leave today.”
“We just arrived, and it wouldn’t be good to hurt the chief’s feelings. As long as we’re under his protection, no one will harm you.”
“The men look like murderers, and the women are even worse.”
He placed his hand on her shoulder and gazed into her eyes. “We’ll get out of this if we remain calm. In a few days, I’ll talk to the chief. I’m sure he’ll let us go.”
Phyllis rubbed her arms nervously. “I’m afraid of them.”
He was about to unbutton her blouse when he heard a sound outside the wickiup. “It’s Cucharo, and I’ve got to be going. Don’t worry so much. Everything’ll work out fine.”
He crawled out of the wickiup, leaving her fidgeting in the dimness, the feel of his lips still on her throat. He had interesting places to go, while she remained amid the hostility of the women. Phyllis recalled the moans of lust emitting from Delgado’s wickiup and felt terrible forebodings. The rancher’s daughter found herself in a strange new world and wasn’t sure how to proceed.
She thought of that grand old desperado, her father, swaggering about the Bar T, his big, white rancher hat slanted low over his eyes, a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t take crap from anybody, and certainly wouldn’t hide inside a wickiup all day.
Phyllis crawled outside, and Duane had disappeared. She adjusted her holster, then sauntered toward Delgado’s fire, as if she didn’t give a damn about anything. Delgado’s wives were gathered, working on animal skins, and their eyes raised as Phyllis approached. She knelt among them, dipped her hands into the mixture of fat and brains, and resumed rubbing it into the antelope hide.
Huera glanced at her skeptically. “You were so tired—I did not think you’d come back.”
“What does a woman do if she needs to take a bath, or don’t you take baths?”
“We will go to the river later in the day. You can come with us, if you are not afraid.” Huera’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “A mountain lion may eat you.”
From her kneeling position, Phyllis performed the classic fast draw, took aim at a branch sticking out of the top of Delgado’s wickiup, and pulled the trigger. The camp rocked with the gunshot and the branch split in two. The wives stared at Phyllis in alarm, and warriors poked their heads out of their wickiups, weapons in their hands. She calmly blew smoke off the end of her gun barrel and dropped it into her holster. Then she resumed working on her antelope, and the women were more respectful.
CHAPTER 5
MARSHAL DAN STOWE RODE INTO Morellos on a hot Wednesday afternoon. He was bearded, cadaverous, hollow-eyed, his tin badge covered with mud, and no one noticed that he was a lawman. Morellos was a typical medium-sized border town on the edge of the desert, remote from the Mexican and American armies, and infested with every stripe of desperado, bandito, outlaw, cutthroat, and traitor. Stowe had visited before, and law enforcement was erratic at best, totally corrupt at worst. A man’s life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel when the sun went down over the streets of Morellos.
Two oxen approached, pulling a wagon covered with animal skins, and the lawman wondered what was being smuggled beneath the pile. One-story adobe buildings with flat roofs and small windows lined the street, and the largest contained hotels, shops, saloons, and stores. Marshal Stowe turned onto Main Street, headed for the best hotel in town. He wanted to take a bath, have a drink of whiskey, and change clothes, for the tension had been terrific in Apache country. He’d had the feeling that they were watching his every move, and the only reason they hadn’t attacked was he kept one finger on the trigger of his Remington twenty-four hours a day. Now at last he could get some real sleep.
He left his horses at the stable, then walked across the dusty street to the McAllister Hotel. In the lobby, old upholstered furniture crowded together, while sooty lamps hung from the walls. A Mexican with a long mustache sat behind the counter, reading a six-month-old newspaper.
“Room for the night,” Stowe said. “And a bath.”
The clerk winked. “How about a woman?”
“Maybe later.” Stowe leaned over the counter and looked into his eyes. “You
got anybody in this hotel named Braddock?”
The clerk adjusted his glasses as he glanced through the registration book. “I do not see that name, sir.”
Stowe took the book from his hands and read the names. Most were illegible, but he couldn’t find Braddock or Thornton, not that people always used their real names. “Ever heard of the Pecos Kid?”
The clerk scratched his nose. “Didn’t he shoot somebody famous?”
“Duane Braddock is about six feet tall, eighteen years old, and has got a bad temper.”
“That would describe half the men in this town, senor.”
“I’d like to take the bath right away. And send a steak and potatoes to my room.”
Stowe slipped a coin to the clerk, and the clerk winked as he passed Stowe the key. Stowe traversed a maze of narrow, crooked corridors, found his room, and unlocked the door. A rickety chair and bed with a cavern in the middle comprised the decor. He pulled aside the stained burlap curtain and examined the outbuildings in the backyard. Then he sat on the bed and rolled a cigarette.
It was good to have a roof over his head again, but the room felt cramped and dingy compared to clean nights under the open sky. Texas would be a great place if it weren’t for the damned Apaches, he thought. He drank from his canteen, puffed the cigarette, and wondered if Duane Braddock was in town with his ladylove. There was a knock on the door, and the marshal pulled out his Remington. “Who’s there?”
The door opened, and two Mexican women entered, carrying a wooden washtub. They were followed by Mexican men carrying buckets of hot water, which they poured into the tub. Stowe pulled off his boots and a terrible stench filled the room. One of the women opened the window wider. Finally the tub was filled. The women left a torn towel and a misshapen lump of soap. Stowe latched the door behind them, removed his clothes, and slipped into the hot water, puffing on the cheroot.
