Apache Runaway

by Madeline Baker

  “…for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me…”

  Ryder Fallon listened impassively, hearing in his mind the lilting, musical voice of his mother as she tucked him into bed at night. Closing his eyes, he saw her kneeling beside his pallet in their lodge deep in the heart of the Cheyenne nation, smiling as he repeated the words to the Lord’s Prayer.

  As Nephi Johnson’s softly spoken words of comfort and assurance whispered through the Apache lodge, Fallon’s thoughts drifted back through the dim corridors of time, back to the golden years of his childhood. He heard his mother humming softly as she prepared their meals, saw her stand on tiptoe to kiss his father’s copper-hued cheek. He saw his father, a mighty Cheyenne warrior, pause beside a meandering stream to pick a bouquet of wildflowers, saw the happy tears in his mother’s eyes as she accepted the fragrant gift from her husband’s hands. He smiled faintly as he recalled the feeling of love and security that had filled their lodge until the day a Pawnee arrow killed his father and broke his mother’s heart.

  Fallon’s reverie was shattered by the frightened gasp of one of the troopers as two Apache warriors entered the wickiup. Wordlessly, they grabbed Corporal Hunter by the arms and dragged him outside.

  Sergeant Dryden’s hoarse cough echoed like thunder in the stillness that followed.

  The seven remaining soldiers carefully avoided each other’s eyes, ashamed of the swift surge of relief that flowed through them because they had been spared, if only for the moment.

  Sweat tracked its way down grimy cheeks as each man strained his ears for some sound, some clue as to their companion’s fate. Hearts pounded. Mouths went dry. Nervous fingers drummed on the hard earthen floor. Fear was a tangible presence in the lodge, as real as the harsh rasp of their breathing, as solid as the ground at their feet.

  There was no sound from outside the wickiup.

  Five minutes passed. Ten. And still there was no sound.

  Nerves already rubbed raw by the events of the day were frayed beyond endurance by the taut silence that hung over the Indian village. And then, when it seemed they would drift forever in a sea of silent uncertainty, a shrill scream shattered the quiet of the night, followed by a wail of such unspeakable agony that the camp dogs howled in sympathy.

  “My God,” breathed Trooper Horn, and quietly bowed his head, searching his soul for the courage to face whatever lay waiting for him.

  The boy who had vomited toppled over in a dead faint. No one seemed to notice.

  Fallon stretched out on his left side and gazed up at the tiny patch of sky visible through the blackened smoke hole of the wickiup. A solitary star winked back at him, shining clear and bright against the black velvet curtain of night.

  With a sigh, Fallon closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of the nightmare images that had been conjured up by Hunter’s agonized scream. Of all the tribes in the Southwest, the Apache were the most skilled in the art of torture, often keeping their luckless victims alive for days at a time, long, pain-racked days and nights that undoubtedly seemed like endless years.

  He swore softly. There was no possibility of escape, no hope of reprieve. He faced the fact squarely and accepted it. The best he could hope for was to face his tormentors defiantly, with his head high and his spirit unbowed. If he could endure their torture bravely, with dignity, as a warrior should, perhaps he could earn their respect again. Perhaps they might even grant him a quick death. Perhaps.

  A wry smile touched Fallon’s lips. It was doubtful that the People would go easy on him. Traitors died hard, and he was the worst kind of traitor. And with that thought in mind, he rested, knowing he would need every ounce of strength he possessed to meet the ordeal that lay ahead.

  Surprisingly, he slept.

  * * * * *

  When he woke, it was morning and he was alone in the lodge with the freckle-faced boy.

  “You look a little green, kid,” Fallon observed dryly. “Just you and me left?”

  The boy nodded weakly. “Y…yes.”

  “Saving the best for last, I guess,” Fallon muttered, wincing as he struggled to sit up. For a moment the lodge spun out of focus, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  When he opened his eyes again, he found the boy staring at him, a worried frown on his face.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Fallon?”

  Fallon snorted softly. “Yeah, I’m fine, kid. Just fine.” Except that my head feels like it was run over by a herd of buffalo and my leg feels like all the fires of Hades are kindled inside.

  “Just fine,” he repeated dully, and wished he had a good stiff drink to ease the pain in his leg and wash the dryness from his throat.

  A short time later an aged woman shuffled into the wickiup, a large bowl cradled in her gnarled hands. Murmuring to the boy in her own tongue, she offered him a spoonful of the bowl’s contents, but the boy refused it with a violent shake of his head.

  The old woman grunted her displeasure as she crossed the floor and knelt in front of Fallon.

  A toothless grin lit her wrinkled features as he readily opened his mouth. The stew was hot, rich and thick, flavored with sage and wild onions and chunks of venison. He ate it all and wished for more.

  “You should have eaten some, kid,” Fallon remarked when they were alone again. “They aren’t likely to offer you anything else.”

  “How can you think of food at a time like this?” the boy exclaimed angrily. “You know they’re only trying to keep us strong so they can torture us later.”

  Fallon shrugged. “No sense dyin’ hungry.”

  The boy groaned low in his throat. “Horn and the others are dead, butchered by those savages, and we’re next!” He shuddered. “Horn lasted for hours. When I close my eyes, I can still hear him screaming. I don’t know how you slept through it. I…”

  “Get hold of yourself, trooper!” Fallon admonished sharply. “Horn and the others are dead meat, and none of your sniveling will bring them back!” He swore softly at the shocked expression on the boy’s face. “I’m sorry, kid,” he apologized gruffly. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep? You look beat.”

  “Sleep!” the boy shouted. “Sleep!” His voice rose hysterically. “After tonight, I’ll be sleeping forever.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Take it easy, kid,” Fallon said gently. “Everybody dies sooner or later.”

  “But not like this,” the boy whimpered. “I’m scared.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

  “Are you scared?” the boy asked, genuinely surprised.

  Fallon nodded slowly. He was scared, right down to the ground. More scared than he’d ever been, though it wasn’t death he was afraid of; only that he might die badly.

  Somehow, his confession seemed to make the boy feel better.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Cory, sir. Cory Mulhaney.”

  “How old are you, Cory?”

  “Sixteen,” the boy confessed. “I lied to get into the Army.”

  Fallon laughed ruefully. “I guess that proves honesty is the best policy, eh, Cory?”

  “Yessir,” the boy agreed, rewarding Fallon with a weak smile. “What did Sergeant Dryden mean when he said the Apache were your brothers?”

  “Kayitah made me a blood brother to one of his warriors a long time ago. They adopted me into the tribe.”

  Cory looked confused. “Well then, won’t they let you go?”

  Fallon shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve been riding the white man’s trail too long to have any friends left here now.”

  “I guess they won’t like you scouting against them either.”

  Fallon grinned. “Not much.”

  “Have you been scouting for the cavalry very long?”

  Fallon’s expression grew somber. “Less than a week.”

  “Why’d you sign on as a scout?”

  “I guess you could say Major Darcy Miller ‘persuaded’ me.”

&n
bsp; Cory nodded, understanding the implication, and the two men exchanged glances of mutual dislike for Fort Bowie’s commanding officer.

  “You married, Mr. Fallon?”

  There was a long pause before Ryder replied tonelessly, “No, kid, I’m not married.”

  “I got a girl in Tucson,” Cory said wistfully. “We’re gonna get married next year when I…” His voice trailed off as he remembered that, for him, there would be no next year.

  Fallon looked away as the boy struggled to regain his composure. It wasn’t easy to face the fact that your life was over before it had really begun. As for himself, Fallon shrugged fatalistically. He’d covered a lot of ground in his thirty-odd years, seen most of the country between the Atlantic and the Pacific, won and lost a dozen fortunes on the turn of a card, enjoyed the company of numerous beautiful women. He’d done most of the things he wanted to do, and there were few places he wanted to go back to. Still, while he wasn’t afraid to die, he wasn’t ready either.

  “What did you do before you were a scout?” Cory asked in a thin voice, disliking the silence that had settled over the wickiup.

  Fallon smiled faintly, readily understanding the boy’s need for conversation, his unwillingness to spend the long hours until nightfall sitting quietly, with nothing to do but think about what lay ahead.

  “Just about everything, I guess,” Fallon answered, shifting to a more comfortable position. “I busted broncs. Worked as a trailhand. Did some time in jail for robbing a bank over in El Paso. Tried my hand at gold mining in California. Did a stint as marshal in Kansas City. Tended bar in a fancy cathouse in Dodge. Even hired out my gun for a while, but I didn’t cotton to that. Mostly, though, I just drift and hope the cards fall my way.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Cory mused.

  “It has been, from time to time.”

  “I wish I’d…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Cory said flatly. “What’s the use of wishing for anything now?”

  Outside, the shadows grew long, and as the setting sun turned the sky to flame, the low beat of the drum summoned the tribe to the center of the rancheria. Soon, the sounds of singing and dancing and merry laughter filtered into the darkening lodge. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat tickled Fallon’s nostrils.

  Cory had ceased his nervous chatter, and Fallon wondered if the kid had finally fallen asleep. Sitting there in the oppressive darkness, Ryder Fallon wished fervently for the strength and the courage to withstand whatever the fates held in store for him, and while he was wishing, he wished for a tall glass of Kentucky bourbon to ease the throbbing ache in his thigh, and for a cigarette to ease the tension that was tying his guts in a knot. But, like the kid had said, there was no use in wishing for anything now.

  Outside, the village grew ominously still, as if a giant hand had suddenly choked off all sound, all movement. Even the dogs had ceased their endless snapping and snarling.

  Cory began to sob quietly. “I don’t want to die,” he murmured piteously.

  “Nobody does!” Fallon hissed. “Dammit, I wish they’d come and get it over with!”

  The words had barely left his mouth when four warriors entered the lodge. Yanking both white men to their feet, the Indians shoved them outside.

  A wordless murmur of anticipation rose from the waiting crowd.

  For Jenny, the day had passed swiftly. Life with the Apache was hard and there was always plenty of work to keep her hands occupied. She had found several occasions to pass by the wickiup where the prisoners were being held, and her thoughts often strayed to the tall white man who had caught her eye the day before. She wondered who he was and if he had a wife to mourn for him, children who would cry for him.

  With the coming of evening, she grew increasingly restless, and she finally went to the campfire, her steps reluctant. The Indians had tortured captives twice since she’d been a prisoner, but she had never watched. Now, a morbid sense of curiosity held her immobile as she waited in the shadows to see how the tall white man would react when the women began to torture him. Would he scream in terror? Would he weep? Would be beg for mercy when the pain grew unbearable? Intuition told her he would do none of those things, yet it was inconceivable that a man could withstand such agony without voicing the pain aloud.

  She felt an ache in her heart as she watched the last two prisoners being dragged into the center of the village. The boy looked so young, so helpless and afraid, her heart went out to him. But it was the tall man who drew her gaze again and again. He did not look afraid. Indeed, he seemed to take a great interest in everything going on around him, as if he were merely a spectator to the event and not the main attraction.

  In a matter of minutes, the two prisoners were spread-eagled on the ground on either side of the fire, their hands and feet securely lashed to stout wooden stakes driven deep into the earth. Two of the warriors drew their knives and began to cut away the tattered remains of the boy’s Army uniform. The Indians laughed when they saw his long red underwear.

  The two warriors were grinning and shaking heads with amusement at the strange clothing of the white man as they moved toward the half-breed. Dried blood from the bullet wound in his thigh had glued the prisoner’s buckskin pants to his skin, and Jenny heard him curse softly as one of the warriors callously ripped the heavy material from the wound. A fresh trickle of blood oozed down his thigh.

  Jenny swallowed hard. How could she stay and watch? The thought of what was to come made her stomach churn, yet she could not bring herself to leave. She felt strangely drawn to the tall man, though she could not say why. Just looking at him filled her with an odd fluttering in her stomach.

  By mutual consent, the women chose Cory for their first victim. Jenny understood why the women behaved as they did. It was their way of exacting vengeance for the deaths of their husbands and sons, fathers and brothers, and yet it was cruel, so very cruel.

  She felt a wave of revulsion sweep through her as the older girls and women swarmed around the boy like ants over a gumdrop, poking at him with knives and sharp sticks, hitting him with their hands and fists, digging their fingernails into his pale cheeks. They laughed derisively at his pale skin, and at the wispy, ginger-colored hair on his chest.

  Jenny shook her head. She knew these women. They were loving wives and gentle mothers. They laughed when they were happy and cried when they were sad. But now, caught up in the light of the dancing flames, they looked like crones from hell.

  The boy made a valiant attempt to be strong and silent in the face of their relentless attack, but as the sharp knives and sticks pierced his tender flesh again and again, his courage deserted him.

  “Stop, please,” he begged. “Somebody, help me.” He tugged futilely on the ropes that held him down, struggling until he was breathless and covered with sweat. Tears welled in his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. “Oh God,” he sobbed brokenly, “this can’t be happening.”

  His tearful cries filled the women with disdain. Eyes filled with contempt for his weakness, they lashed out at him.

  Jenny longed to run to him, to take him in her arms and comfort him as a mother might comfort a frightened child, but she remained hidden in the shadows, knowing there was nothing she could do. To interfere would not save him.

  And then, to Jenny’s relief, one of the warrior women made her way through the crowd gathered around the boy.

  “His cries make me weary,” she said in a loud voice, and drove a feathered lance into the boy’s heart, killing him instantly. There was a murmur of disapproval from the other women, but none dared challenge Ziyah’s decision.

  Fallon let out a long sigh. The kid had got off easy, he mused. And then he forgot about the boy as the women turned their eyes on him. More wood was tossed onto the fire, and as the flames blazed higher and higher, Ryder Fallon broke out in a cold sweat.

  There was an atmosphere of tense anticipation as an incredibly ugly warrior swaggered into the center of the crowd and stood b
eside the prisoner. A streak of yellow lightning zigzagged across the warrior’s chest. Similar symbols were painted across each cheek. His black eyes, narrowed and close set, flashed angrily as he strutted around the prisoner, recounting Fallon’s treachery in guiding the soldier coats into the rancheria. His voice swelled with the force of his hatred as he described the battle at Rock Springs and declared that the prisoner had sent no less than six brave Apache warriors on the road to the World of Spirits.

  The warrior’s tirade increased the hostility radiating from the tribe, and Fallon felt their animosity rushing toward him, hotter than the flames that danced and crackled near his head.

  In a swift, graceful movement, the warrior plucked a long burning brand from the heart of the fire. Swinging it in wide circles above his head, he walked around Fallon, chanting his war cry.

  “Death to all white-eyes! Death to all white-eyes!”

  And then, in a sudden move that caught Fallon completely off guard, the incensed warrior lunged forward and laid the smoldering stick across his naked belly.

  Fallon gasped as the brand seared his flesh, swore under his breath as the warrior withdrew the stick, taking a layer of skin with it.

  Jenny covered her nose and mouth with her hand at the smell of singed flesh, but she never took her eyes from the prisoner. Sometimes, if a man was extraordinarily brave in the face of death, his life was spared, and Jenny found herself whispering, “Don’t scream, don’t scream,” as his body went rigid with pain. But no sound escaped his lips, and the watching Indians shouted their approval. Traitor though he might be, the half-breed had courage.

  The warrior heated the brand a second time, then advanced toward the prisoner again. Fallon watched him warily now, his muscles bunched in anticipation of the pain to come, his hands tightly clenched.

  He swore softly as the Indian drew near.

  “Niyokahe, wait!”

  The warrior frowned as an aged squaw hobbled into view.

  “Wait,” the woman said again. She stopped in front of Niyokahe, her frail body placed between the warrior and the half-breed. “This one is of the blood. Do you not recognize Kladetahe, blood brother to Delshay?”