“Nígósah,” Joanna Ironheel said. “Ni’l gozhóó née?”
Something like, I’ve been thinking about you, Easton silently translated. Are you happy?
The little boy edged shyly behind his sister, whose wary expression did not change. They were like deer that will pass close to humans without any sign of fear, but always poised for instant flight.
“These Gallerito’s children?” Easton asked, keeping his voice low.
“Grandchildren,” she replied. “I delivered both of them.”
To Easton’s eyes it didn’t look as if either of them had been near soap and water since, but he didn’t say it. Ironheel and Mack Gallerito were still talking. It didn’t appear they were getting any nearer agreement. It was getting sickly hot inside the pickup and he opened the door of the truck to step out. Joanna Ironheel reached over to stop him but she didn’t need to; he had already stopped stock-still as three young Apache men materialized soundlessly around the side of the cabin on his right.
One moment they were not there, the next they were. Dressed in work clothes, Levi jackets and pants, straw Stetsons and work boots, they were stocky, powerful-looking men, their wide, high-cheekboned faces dark and unreadable, their Stone Age immobility in itself a bone-chilling threat.
“Shut the door,” Joanna Ironheel hissed urgently. “Dahahgo!”
The injunction to move fast was unnecessary. So tense was the atmosphere Easton felt as if he had suddenly been transported back to a time when young Apache just like these would kill a white man for no other reason than that he was crossing their land. The sheer menace of their presence made him feel even more alien and alone. This was Apache country and he was the only one not Apache. He shut the door and let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. The young Apache men watched, reptile-still.
After a minute or two, Joanna Ironheel opened the door on her side, got out of the pickup and went over to her brother and Mack Gallerito. The three young Apache acknowledged her presence without taking their eyes off of Easton. They could not have been more menacing if their faces had been painted and they were wearing breechclouts.
Joining the two men, Joanna Ironheel asked a question, and her brother nodded, yes. She laid a hand on Mack Gallerito’s forearm and looked up earnestly into his eyes, talking fast. The old Mescalero looked annoyed, as if what she was doing was unfair. Then he looked over at Easton and shrugged.
“Ch’ik’eh dolee’l,” Easton heard him say. And then again, more crossly, “Ch’ik’eh dolee’l!”
You didn’t need to speak Apache to know what that meant. The exasperated tone said it all. All right, okay, but with a sour note of unwillingness in the acquiescence. He saw Joanna Ironheel’s lips part in a smile, her brother’s shoulders relax. When he looked again, the three young Apache had vanished as silently as they had appeared. No wonder they scared the shit out of the US Cavalry, he thought.
Ironheel came over to the truck. “Thought for a moment he was going to sic his boys on to us,” he said.
“That might have been interesting,” Easton said.
Ironheel nodded, not smiling. “My sister talked him round. She’s good with the old ones.”
“Do I get to use the phone?”
“N’zhoo. It has been agreed. So do it,” Ironheel said, “and let’s get out of here.”
Easton got out of the cab and they went inside. Coming out of the bright mountain sunshine it was like walking into a cave. The cabin was cluttered and shabby. Baskets, pots, an old bridle, the moth-eaten head of an elk mounted over the door, a couple of Navajo rugs on the floor, a bearskin on the wall.
There was dust and grit everywhere, and over everything lay a sharp, strong smell, the combined odors of woodsmoke, the rabbit stew cooking on the butane stove and the bundles of dried meat hanging from the rafters above his head.
Apart from a shiny new Mitsubishi wide-screen TV, the furniture consisted of a plastic-covered sofa, a couple of battered old armchairs, a table covered with a red-checkered plastic cloth, and an antiquated icebox that looked as if it was used for storage.
Mack Gallerito stood inside, waiting. “Kugo,” he said. “Through here.”
The unconcealed hostility in the old man’s eyes made Easton glad Ironheel was around. He followed them into a hallway dividing the house. On his right a bedroom door was open. An unmade bed stood beneath the single window. The linoleum on the floor was dusty, pitted and cracked. A two-door cupboard stood against one wall, a three-drawer wooden chest against the other, a spindly rocking chair in the corner between. He wondered whether there was a Mrs. Gallerito and if so where she was.
“Bésh biti’yá’iti’í,” Gallerito said, gesturing.
To Easton’s surprise the phone was digital; he had half-expected one of the old candlestick kind you saw in black and white movies on the late show. A battered and dog-eared Rio Alto phone book hung on a cuphook beneath it. The old man rattled off a staccato question at Ironheel.
“He wants to know if it’s long-distance,” Ironheel said.
“Tell him it’s okay, I’ll use a charge card,” Easton told him, intending it to be reassuring. The mahogany face twisted into a scowl of displeasure and it took Easton a couple of seconds to figure out why. He got out his wallet and handed the old man a five dollar bill.
“Noshkaa,” he said. “Please.”
Gallerito took the bill, folded it three times and put it into his shirt pocket without a word. Easton punched in the numbers and waited, still trying to work out exactly what he was going to say.
“Sheriff’s Office,” a familiar voice answered.
“Tom,” Easton said. “It’s Dave Easton. Can you talk?”
“Jesus, Da—” Cochrane said, biting back the name. “We were told the In’din was holdin’ you hostage.”
“All lies, Tom. I’m okay.”
“But McKittrick—”
“Tom, trust me on this, I don’t have time to explain. Just listen. You remember I told you Ironheel said he saw Joe Apodaca kill Robert Casey.”
“You think I’d forget?”
“He told Weddle, Tom. You know what happened then.”
Cochrane didn’t miss a beat. “You believe him?”
“Yes,” Easton said. “Otherwise why would they try to kill both of us?”
“Say what?”
“Tom, I told Olin McKittrick what Ironheel had told me and why I believed it. He said he’d arranged to get him into a DOJ witness protection program, told me to take him to a meet in Rio Alto. On the way we were ambushed.”
Silence. Easton wanted to push harder but he knew he had to give Cochrane time. The problem being, time was the one thing he didn’t have.
“You know who ambushed you?”
“Two guys. I never got a proper look at them. I was hit and passed out. Ironheel said we killed them both.”
More silence. Easton could almost hear Cochrane thinking.
“You said we? Where did Ironheel get a gun?”
“He used mine.”
“There’s been no report of anyone being killed.”
“If they were hired muscle, no one would report them missing. My guess is Joe and McKittrick probably mopped it up. Then they put out a story that Ironheel had taken me hostage.”
He could sense Tom was still having trouble getting his head around what he was hearing. A thought occurred to him.
“Tom, did you get those Frontier Motel payphone records from Ma Bell?”
“Check.”
“And?”
“Two calls. One to Charlie Goodwin. One to Olin McKittrick.”
“So McKittrick knew,” Easton breathed.
“It’s not what you could call evidence.”
“What about Garcia Flat? You find anything up there?”
“Tire marks, maybe half a mile from where they found the bodies. Someone was up there on a trail bike.”
“You took casts?”
“And photographs.”
“Where are they?”
“In a safe place.”
“Joe Apodaca has a trail bike,” Easton said.
“Wait a minute, wait just a damned minute,” Cochrane said. “Let me try to get ahold of all this.”
“Tom,” Easton said slowly, emphasizing each word. “They’re in it together. It’s the only explanation. Only two people knew I was going to be on that road with Ironheel: Tom Carmody and Olin McKittrick. And I sure as hell don’t think Tom Carmody set us up.”
Easton heard Cochrane let out his breath in a long sigh. “What you want me to do?” he said.
“Nothing,” Easton said urgently. “Until I get Ironheel in front of a grand jury there’s not much any of us can do. That bike of Joe’s, it’s a Harley, right?”
“Right.”
“If we could get casts of his tires ...”
“I love that ‘we’,” Cochrane said sourly. “Dave, I’m gonna need to let Jack in on this, that okay?”
“Use your best judgment, Tom.”
“Ironheel with you?”
“Absolutely. He’s it, Tom. He’s the whole bang shoot. We lose him, they’re fireproof. Keep that in mind, will you?”
“I guess.”
“There’s something else. I need ammunition. Nine mill for the Glock. Shotgun shells.”
“That all?” Cochrane said drily. “Who you planning to shoot?”
“No one, I hope. But if anyone comes after us we might need to … discourage them.”
“How do we work it?”
“There’s a convenience store at Hondo. McCullom’s. You know it?”
“Affirmative.”
“There’s a trash can on the forecourt.”
“Forecourt, trash can, got it. When?”
“Your call, Tom.”
“Tonight be OK?” Cochrane told him. “Around seven, say?”
“Tom,” Easton said. “I can’t begin—”
“Thanks for that. I’ll get right on it,” Cochrane said and hung up abruptly. Someone in the office had come within earshot, Easton decided. He got another dial tone and called his home. Grita answered.
“Grita, it’s me,” he said in Spanish. He heard her gasp. “Don’t talk, just listen. Estoy seguro. I’m all right. What you’ve seen on TV, what you’ve heard, it’s not true. But something bad is happening and I have to stay away from home until I find out what it is.”
“They said the Apache took you away into the mountains.”
“That’s where we are. But I’m not a prisoner. He’s helping me.”
“I tried to keep the little one away from TV. But she heard about it at school. Those kids …”
“Tell her I love her and I’ll be home soon, will you do that?”
“Por cierto. You need anything, food, clothes, I bring it to you,” she said, and he blessed her silently for her unqualified trust.
“Some bad men tried to kill us,” he told her. “I am afraid they might try to use you or Jessye as a means to trap us.”
“Who are these people?”
“Better you don’t know,” he told her. “Grita, I want you to take Jessye, go away as soon as you can. Is there someplace you can go where nobody can find you?”
She was silent for a moment, thinking.
“You remember my aunt, Tia Poli? The one who taught me the Apache song?”
“I remember.”
“We go there,” Grita said. “Tomorrow. I fix with the school. Stay till you come. You know where, si?”
The old aunt who had traded with the Apache lived up in the Gila Forest east of Silver City. He remembered Grita telling him Tia Poli’s adobe casita was up a winding canyon road near the old Georgetown cemetery, hard enough to locate even when you knew where it was. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“That’s perfect,” he said. “Ma’ cuidado, comprende?”
“Have no fear. I will watch over the little one.”
“I know you will, Grita. You always have. Vaya con Dios.”
“Estamos todos en Sus manos, patrón,” she said.
Chapter Eighteen
Mack Gallerito watched impassively as they got back into their truck and drove off. He probably would have had the same expression on his face if they’d driven off a cliff, Easton thought. He was beginning to get used to what appeared to be the standard Apache hostility toward the pinda’lick’oye, but there was no law said he had to like it.
“Muchas gracias, you hard-assed old bastard,” he muttered as the old man went back into his rundown cabin. Ironheel heard him and said something to his sister in Apache. She nodded and smiled a tight little smile.
“What was that?” Easton asked.
“Said it’s going to take a long time to make you understand what it’s like to be Apache,” Ironheel replied.
“If your friend Gallerito’s a role model I’d say you’re probably right,” Easton replied.
This time his words touched a nerve because he saw rancor kindle in the dark eyes. Joanna Ironheel saw it too, and put her hand on her brother’s arm. He drew in a long breath and let it out, shaking his head impatiently.
“Baa nagólni’,” he said to his sister. “Tell him.”
“No matter how it may have looked, Mr. Easton, Mack Gallerito wasn’t being a hard-assed old bastard,” she said. “Apache don’t do chitchat. Something’s worth saying, we say it. If not, we say nothing.”
“You afraid us white-eyes will confuse polite with gutless?”
“We learned never to give you the chance,” Ironheel gritted, biting down on the words. “Long time back.”
It got very quiet, a maybe-nobody-better-say-anything kind of quiet. It stayed that way as they bumped down the trail into the canyon. Joanna Ironheel’s back was as straight as a ramrod, and the smolder of disapproval coming off her brother was practically toxic. Humble pie time, Easton thought..
“Doo baa shi’l gozhóó da. I apologize,” he said abruptly into the silence. “What I just said was stupid.”
Surprise lit Ironheel’s eyes, but it was quickly masked. His sister allowed herself the thinnest of smiles.
“Apology acknowledged,” she said.
The clipped tone told Easton ‘acknowledged’ was not in this instance a synonym for ‘accepted.’ Apache and their goddamned pride. Did they think they were the only ones who had any? He took a deep breath and started over.
“You’re probably wondering who I called back there,” he said.
They waited, saying nothing. Was that more of the Apache way, he mused, or their way of telling him they were wondering no such thing? Whatever it was, their lack of interest was disconcerting. Maybe they were confident Yusn would take care of them, he thought. Maybe so, but since Yusn was the Apache god, he wasn’t about to take a chance on the care extending to him.
He told them about his call to Tom Cochrane, and his friend’s promise to make a drop outside McCullom’s later that evening.
“That’s a lot of trust,” Ironheel said. “How do we work this?”
“It would probably be best if I go down to Hondo alone.”
Ironheel made an impatient sound.
“Get real, Easton. Last couple of days your face has been all over TV. You walk into a store, someone will drop a dime and every cop in New Mexico will be on your case.”
“So what are you saying, you should go?”
“Damn right.”
“Just mingle with all the other Apache doing a little late night shopping down there, right?” Easton said, piling on the scorn.
As Ironheel glared back at him, he glanced at Joanna Ironheel. She had tight hold of the wheel and was staring straight ahead, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Was she staying out of it because when there is a difference between men, Apache women do not intervene, or for reasons best known to herself? One thing he did know: something was making her good and mad.
“So,” Ironheel said, leaning as heavily on the sarcasm as Easton had. “You go down there in them bloodstained uniform pan
ts, start rummaging about in the trash can, and hope nobody will notice, that it?”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Joanna Ironheel snapped, pulling to a stop in front of the cabin. “Will you two quit butting heads like a couple of rutting elk?”
Rutting elk? Well, well, Easton thought, struggling not to grin, she sure as hell hadn’t keeping silent out of respect.
“Did someone ask you for an opinion?” Ironheel snapped.
“Nizé!” she snapped back, the dark eyes flashing. “Just save that warrior-code routine for the na’ilins, big brother. It doesn’t impress me.”
“What does?” he retorted.
They glowered angrily at each other. Siblings always fight dirtier than strangers, Easton thought. They get more practice.
“You Neanderthals listen to me,” Joanna Ironheel said, staring straight ahead. “Neither of you can go down there. And you both know it.”
Ironheel turned to Easton as if to say, You tell her. But Easton shook his head.
“She’s right,” he said.
Joanna Ironheel clapped her hands together and laughed out loud, giving him a sudden glimpse of a younger, beautiful woman.
“Yéé, now you’re being smart, Mr. Easton,” she said. “At least you’re man enough to admit you’re wrong.”
Her brother made an impatient, dismissive sound that is the same in any language: women!
“Not wrong,” Easton protested. “A tad slow on the uptake, maybe.”
“Both,” she said, and not without satisfaction.
Chapter Nineteen
Joanna Ironheel left for Hondo a little after seven. Before she left she again made it very clear she was helping only because there was no alternative.
“I have my own life here,” she told Easton. “The work I do is important. I will not allow you this thing of yours to jeopardize it.”
“Fine,” Easton told her, matching her antagonism with some of his own. “But just remember if I hadn’t been for this thing of mine, as you call it, your brother would probably be dead now.”
“You two fight well,” Ironheel observed sarcastically, and all at once his sister held up both her hands, palms out.
Apache Country Page 15
