A shudder. Silence. “All right.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice into a muddy footprint. “But I want half of it up front— $750. And we’ll need financing for an expedition of this sort.”
“Our employer will take care of that, too.” She could only hope that Gordon Halpern hadn’t found someone else crazy enough to guide him down into Mexico’s treacherous Sierra Madre Mountains.
Gay Alley could be dangerous at night. But then, Mattie had little left to fear. She said as much as she stood before Gordon Halpern in his rented room.
“There are things worse than torture or rape, Mr. Halpern.” When he made no offer for her to take a seat, she sat down in the spooled-back chair opposite the small table from him. He was playing solitaire. “I’m sure your wife will agree.” If she’s still alive, Mattie added to herself.
He tipped back his chair and propped the heels of his black patent boots with suede uppers on the rickety table. Civilization’s garb—cream-colored trousers and vest, brown striped shirt, and ivory silk cravat— belied the primal man it clothed. “Like what? Death?”
“Death!” she scoffed. “Death is a blessing—if it is our own. But now watching someone else die . . . .” She stopped, still unable, after all these years, to talk about the heartbreaking horror. “So,” she went on briskly, “if ye still need a guide . . . .”
The candlelight in the center of the table reflected his saturnine features: the broad sweep of his cheekbone, the curling sensuality of his lip beneath the raven mustache, the slightly brooding slant to his hazel eyes. “What made you change your mind?” he asked.
“Yesterday, me bairn ran off. I believe he’s returning to his father. Nantez.”
Looking into the dark depths of those eyes, she could almost see Halpern flinch. Did he fear that Nantez or one of his warriors would get Diana with child also?
“He can’t be very old,” he finally said.
“Nine.”
His expression was one of incredulity. “You really think a nine-year-old can find his way back to his father over hundreds of miles of desert and mountain?”
“The question is,” she said calmly, “can we?”
He shifted his feet on the floor beneath the table and slapped his thighs with his palms. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”
Taking the action as a cue of his impatience, she rose. She had noted that he moved quickly and with determination. Which, she had learned, often signaled a person uncertain of his decision and anxious to act before he could change his mind. But this kind of person got things done.
“We will need supplies for an expedition of this sort,” she said. “Also, I’m taking a guide along. A Reverend Bingham. He was a circuit-riding preacher in Mexico and a captive of Nantez for several months. He wants half of his share of the reward up front.” Gordon Halpern raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t I just hire him instead?”
“Like you said, I know Nantez’s habits. For instance, Nantez and his warriors have a mysterious way of vanishing completely. I’ll explain that secret later. We’ll have plenty of time to discuss how we’re going to find him once we’re on our journey. Right now, it’s important that we get the expedition under way. Ye are prepared to finance it?”
He leaned forward, those large, menacing hands clasped in a most businesslike fashion. “I’ve made a deposit with Wells Fargo. You may draw upon it for anything—within reason.”
“The Arctic better have a hell of a lot of ice.”
The next morning, she learned that Gordon Halpern was as good as his word. Zechendorf and Co. provided an array of supplies from which she selected what was essential for traveling light and far and fast, as well as a canvas tent by Phoenix Tenting Company.
She also purchased two repeating rifles, a Marlin and a Winchester, and an old single-shot Civil War-vintage Springfield.
Most of Nantez’s warriors, numbering upward of seventy-five, were equipped with the Springfield and an assortment of handguns that had been taken in raids on the settlements or in attacks on travelers on the lonely roads of New Mexico and Arizona.
From E. F. Colton’s Livery Stable and Corral, Mattie purchased a pack mule and a mount for Halpern, a five-year-old bay gelding that was fairly well muscled in the pants and with plenty of bone and balance. For herself, she had a spotted Indian pony an old miner had given her two years ago in trade for treating his gout.
The pony, Pepper, had proved capable of great endurance. Pepper and Sam Kee provided the ears that listened to her own occasional ravings. Neither the pony nor the Chinaman ever betrayed her soul’s torment. She was tired of being ever-vigilant. She was furious at not verbalizing her rage at the injustices of life rather than merely showing it. A childish thing to do, she knew.
She could only pray that she and Bingham and Halpern equaled Pepper’s endurance. And pray was something she rarely did.
Mattie, Bingham, and Halpern met before sunup the next day outside Sam Kee’s. Bingham was astride his stout mule. He had already appropriated the old Springfield, and it lay across his lap, ready for use. For herself, she had reserved the Marlin, slung on a strap from her shoulders. It didn’t carry a lot of kick.
With Halpern and Bingham watching, she bade farewell to the old Chinaman, who held a lantern against the indigo darkness. The presence of the other two men, along with her own discomfort in expressing affection for any male, hampered any emotional good-byes. “If I don’t come back within three weeks, Sam, me place is yours—its bucket- brigade toilet facilities and all.”
He bobbed his head. “I keepy the lantern lit in your place for you, missy.”
By dawn’s rapidly brightening light, she cantered with the two men along the Tucson-Tombstone road. Bingham’s squint-eyed assessment of Gordon Halpern clearly indicated mistrust. Halpern had given the preacher only a cursory glance and then, as if dismissing him, turned his attention back to his mount.
The gelding had a mind of its own, but Halpern had a good seat. “For a dude, you ride well enough,” Mattie observed.
He flicked her a glance that, however fleeting, did not miss her floppy sombrero, red bandanna knotted around her neck, and her shabby, navy wool-serge riding jacket that some woman had left in Sam Kee’s. It was trimmed with brown leather straps, which were cracked with age. One was missing its buckle. Her buckskin skirt was soiled and had lost more than half its fringe decoration.
“I belonged to the Philadelphia Riding Club,” he told her.
“Oh, did ye now?” Her censuring gaze took in his black broad-brimmed Charro hat, spurred Wellington boots, suede jacket, and buff riding britches. His cane was tucked into the saddle scabbard, where resided the latest model of Winchester she had purchased. “Well, we don’t ride to the foxes here, but the coyotes may provide a source for your amusement.”
“Look, Miss McAlister, this expedition doesn’t promise to be easy. Don’t make it more difficult.”
“Expect it to be more than difficult. Expect it to be hell. Am I right, Reverend?”
Bingham fixed her with his condemning gaze. “God is judging you.”
“And you are that judgment.” She tugged her own sombrero brim lower. They were going east, toward the rising sun. The day promised to be hot.
The horses’ hooves kicked up puffs of alkali dust. Cholla and saguaro cacti painted a stark and barren landscape, but the yucca was sending up wonderful clusters of cream-colored flowers, and the bright green, spindly-branched ironwood bore an abundance of lavender and purple flowers.
Their path paralleled the new Southern Pacific Railroad. The horses’ heads were held high, characteristic of a good walking gait of the cavalry, which would average four miles an hour.
As each traveler was preoccupied with thoughts of the journey ahead, conversation was less than scintillating. A white-hot sun had beaten back yesterday’s clouds. By midday, heat waves were rising off the floor of Sulphur Spring Valley, and a wide, rolling plain lay just ahead. The wagon-wheel-rutted road stretched out before
them. Deeper ruts indicated the caissons that had transferred cannon from Fort Lowell to Fort Bowie earlier that spring.
“We could make better time,” Halpern called out at one point.
She knew if he had his way, he would gallop the horse all the way to Mexico. “When ye march a horse at high speed, either a sustained trot or a long gallop, ye cost yourself and your horse a lot of sweat. In the desert that equals death. Our objective is to get there.”
Bingham called for a halt in the shadow of a limestone ledge, a precursor to the Chiricahua Mountains rising to the south. Tufts of blue gamma grass and shoots of mustard primrose signaled that there was water nearby. The spring that gave the valley its name was only a thin thread burbling from the sand, but it was enough to ease the thirst of the mounts.
The three travelers brought out their Civil War- issue canteens, along with hardtack and canned peaches. Heartier meals would come only when they camped for the night.
“Lord God bless this humble food,” Bingham intoned before chomping into his hardtack. Mouth full, he said, “We should reach Fort Bowie by sometime tonight.” He swallowed. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll travel on to Stein’s railroad station, then turn southward.”
Her back propped against the rock-striated wall, Mattie uncorked her canteen and wet her neckerchief to dampen her face. In her own way, she was as anxious as Halpern to make good time. Heading directly south through Apache Pass was the quickest route to the northern end of the Sierra Madres. And the most difficult. No rougher terrain could be imagined.
But with Albert traveling by buckboard, she figured he would probably stick to the main road that snaked on eastward toward Mesilla, the territorial capital of New Mexico.
On the other hand, the Apaches were fast moving and adept at blending into the landscape. Trying to sight an Apache was like trying to see the wind. Albert may have already abandoned the wagon in one of the numerous box canyons that gouged the area and vanished into the Chihuahua Mountains.
“Ye think the road to Stein’s will be safe enough?” she asked Bingham. It was difficult for her to be civil to him, since he was partly responsible for her tainted reputation. But they had one thing in common: They were both survivors.
“I hear tell the troops at Fort Bowie have been reinforced by a detachment from Camp Huachuca. They’ll be watching the road through the pass.”
“So will the Apaches. They’re watching us even now.”
“How do you know that?” Halpern asked her, as he turned the tin can’s key to open its top.
“They’re the world’s greatest fighters. They keep the element of surprise on their side.”
Halpern braced a forearm on one knee. “What’s this Nantez like?”
She shrugged. “Short. Squat. Ugly.”
“No, I mean his behavior.”
“He’s the Nobleman of the Neolithic.” She wished he wouldn’t keep asking questions. They stirred up unpleasant memories.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s cruel. I watched him torture a victim to death by cutting small pieces out of his feet.” She could have said much more, but there was no point in alarming him too much.
“You told Sam Kee we’d be back in three weeks,” he said. “We’ve got to make better time than that.”
“If Diana survived the first few days, time is on her side.”
She knew he took her bluntness for a lack of compassion, but she had learned that the truth was better than holding out false hope. False hope only cracked the heart.
She sipped the metallic-tasting water slowly, then said, “Mr. Halpern, it’s been almost a month since your wife was captured. Even a week spent as a captive changes one. Forever.” She paused. How could she tell him delicately what to expect?
His gaze drilled into her. “Are you trying to hint that I won’t want my wife back? That if Diana’s been . . . defiled . . . I’ll not love her or desire her? There’s more to a person, Miss McAlister, than the physical body. If that were—”
“I’m trying to say that she may not want you.” She corked her canteen and stood up.
Bingham was eyeing them both with grizzly amusement.
She stared down at Halpern. “Do ye understand what I am saying, or should I be more explicit?”
“So that’s what turned you into the sexless, pitiful creature you are,” Halpern said with no malice and the barest hint of compassion.
That compassion was what threatened to shatter her. Feeling her chest tighten, she swallowed her pain. So many horrendous memories crashed in on her. The worst of them came, not from her years spent in captivity, but from these four spent in a society that considered itself civilized. With her own people, she felt less than human, different from everyone else, tainted and worthless.
Nothing she could do would change their opinion of her. So she had stopped trying. Now, at least, she was true to herself. She hoped.
Before she could retaliate, Bingham said, “You willingly satisfied the lust of those red devils, girl.” He took a swig from his canteen, then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “For that you will burn ’til your very soul shrivels to ashes like newspaper in a fire.”
She stalked to where her pony stood placidly munching the tufted grass and swung up into the western saddle. She had learned to ride sidesaddle in Scotland and then bareback in Nantez’s camp.
Mattie stared down at Bingham. “I was willing to gratify the lust of an extraordinarily cruel man. I did so for seven years. I often wondered if I wasn’t becoming crazier than you.”
She glanced at Halpern then. “I survived, Mr. Halpern. Let’s hope your Diana can do the same. Coming?”
§ CHAPTER THREE §
The journey resumed in strained silence. Halpern broke it when he pointed to a plume of gray smoke in the hilly distance, where the road crawled toward Fort Bowie and Apache Pass. “Have the Apaches spotted us?”
“They’ve been watching us since we left Tucson,” Bingham said. “You can count on that.”
Bingham was right, Mattie knew. Warriors kept watch from rocks and mountain lookouts across wide stretches of country, observing sometimes for days their intended victims before striking.
“Does the fire relay word that they have sighted us?”
“No,” she said. “It’s absurd to think that Apaches carry on regular conversations by means of smoke signals. They use smoke fires on mountaintops mainly as signals of distress. That fire isn’t from a mountaintop.”
“But it’s likely to mean distress, all the same,” Bingham said. “And trouble for us. I suggest we avoid the area. The terrain’ll be rougher, but maybe we oughtta head south into the Chiricahuas and drop on down into Mexico now.”
She shook her head. “No. For all I know, that could be me son in trouble.”
“If we find your son first,” Halpern said, “the deal still stands, right?”
“I keep me word, Mr. Halpern.”
“Did you ever think you might be doing your son a disservice, trying to mold him into Anglo ways?”
“I think about it every day of me life.” She looked over at him, then returned her gaze to the road. Hot sand, hot wind, fierce sunlight. “What about yourself? Did you ever think ye might have molded yourself into something you’re not?”
His eyes swerved to her. After a speculative moment, he said, “Every day of my life.”
“When do we collect for our services?” Bingham asked.
“When my wife is safely across the border. I can give you vouchers drawn on Wells Fargo at that time.”
The plume of smoke grew more distinct, swirling gray at its top, a darker black at its base. At the sight of half a dozen gliding buzzards, encircling the plume, her scalp prickled.
In a quarter of an hour, the source of the smoke came into view: an overturned stage. From the looks of the scene, a band of Apaches had surprised the regular mail wagon from the East. One of its wheels had come off and had rolled to a stop in a mound of nearby rocks.
Two of the stage’s lead mules lay dead. The others must have been taken by the war party.
Halpern dismounted and, cane in hand, approached the still-smoking wagon. The heat reached Mattie, a dozen yards away. With his cane, he nudged a small, blanket wrapped object. A child’s doll rolled out. Eyeless sockets stared up at them.
She remained where she was. Where were the occupants of the stage?
“Where now are Fort Bowie’s brave soldiers?” she asked of no one in particular.
She remembered bitterly that when an opportunity for escape had presented itself, she had fled Nantez’s camp in Mexico with five-year-old Albert and eventually had arrived across the border, first at Camp Huachuca, then at Fort Lowell.
The welcome that Fort Lowell’s soldiers had given her had been less than sympathetic. In some of the troopers’ expressions she had seen ogling interest. Doubtlessly, they had entertained lurid visions of taking advantage of her.
Bingham climbed down from his mule, Jughead. She watched him move with cautious steps and Winchester held ready toward the overturned stage. “Damned heathens!” he said.
Halpern looked up at her. “Can you tell who’s responsible? Nantez’s band maybe?”
She knew he was hoping the subchief was in the area. Her gaze ran over the ground, looking for signs, but she couldn’t tell by the tracks. The ponies, maybe a dozen of them, were unshod. She shook her head. “There’s at least half a dozen different Apache bands in southeastern Arizona on the warpath right now.”
Bingham walked over to the wheel that had rolled free and surprised her by prying loose two spokes. Then he started back to the wagon. She watched as he sawed off a length of rein that still tethered the dead mule and lashed the spokes into a cross.
He jammed the improvised cross deep into the sand, then removed his feathered hat. Sunlight glistened off his scarred pate. At the grisly sight, Halpern’s dark brows raised, but he said nothing. Hands resting on his cane, he waited for Bingham to finish.
Tame the Wildest Heart Page 3
