After the Apache rancheria, Cusarare looked cosmopolitan to Gordon.
Diana slumped in front of him. He was concerned; she seemed more dead than alive. When he was fourteen, he had seen Union soldiers coming back from Gettysburg. Most of those who had survived had stumps for arms and legs. They all wore looks of shock, even the few who had been lucky enough to remain whole men. As if they had glimpsed the end of life. Diana wore that look now.
Liliana sat in the semi-shaded doorway of her mud hut. Her plump hands worked rapidly, weaving a pine-needle basket. She glanced up. The sunlight fell on her face, and its homely countenance beamed a smile that was beatific.
Riding next to him, Mattie swore under her breath. “Sonofabitch. Bingham must have gone and married her while in the haze of the sedative I gave him!”
“Or taken her to bed,” he said.
Mattie shook her head. “No. Not even the sedative could bring him around to do that deed with her.”
He laughed aloud, and Diana stirred in his arms. While she was still acquiescent, he bent and kissed her lips. They were perfectly shaped, with that enticing indentation in the center of the bottom one. But they were cold.
She turned her head away.
Another part of him died. Maybe, all of him would eventually die, so that his wanting of her would at last be ended.
Or maybe, as Mattie had suggested in solace, this life-threatening crisis in Diana’s life would change her so completely, change her so that she could come to love. Love him.
But the deepest part of him, that part that knew truth, whispered that Diana would never be anything but the passive being that this horrible ordeal had made her. She had regressed to the mentality of a child not much older than Albert, and much less stable.
So. Here he was, saddled with a child for a wife. For the rest of his life. Somewhere, something inside him, an awareness, wept. His shoulders straightened. Everything had its price.
Mattie’s boy materialized in the darkened doorway. His cold gaze could wilt a flower. “Get Bingham. We’re leaving,” Gordon told him. He had no idea how close Nantez was on their heels, but according to Mattie, the Apache chief would pursue them into hell if he had to.
Albert’s gaze shifted to her. “Mother?” Before she could reply, he came toward her in a run.
She slipped from her horse and grabbed him. She nuzzled his hot, sweaty neck the way a mare nuzzles its colt.
A moment later Bingham staggered to the door. He looked like some shaggy mountain man.
“It must have been a hell of a romp,” Gordon murmured to Mattie.
“Your wife?” Bingham asked, nodding toward the mute and listless Diana.
“Yeah. And your share of the fifteen hundred dollars. Get your gear together. A fiend worse than any Satan you’ve preached about is following our trail.”
Bingham nodded. “So, we come face to face with our fears. Our shadows. The fiend becomes our savior.” His grin, before he retreated inside, was spooky.
Or maybe, Gordon thought, I’m just on edge. Maybe Bingham’s right. I’m having to face my enemies. They are faces of myself.
Liliana stood outside the doorway, her expression as vapid as the desert flats. Albert walked around from the staked corral behind the mud shack, leading their two horses and the pack mule.
When Bingham emerged from the shack with saddlebags and a rifle, Liliana looked up. He stopped and stared down at her. In the grizzly mass of beard, his mouth twisted. He turned away and stalked to his horse.
Liliana never said a word. Just watched them trot their horses out of the village.
Gordon darted a last look over his shoulder. She was still standing there. With her dark brown skin, she could have been one of those carved wooden Indians he had seen propped outside a sutler’s store. Bingham never glanced back.
* * *
Indian legend predicted that the coyote would be the last species on Earth. Albert studied the preacher, riding ahead of him. He doubted Bingham would fulfill that prophecy. The man was too stupid to take care of himself. No warrior rode with his carbine’s muzzle resting in the saddle scabbard. Apaches carried the rifle in the hand, always.
Albert gazed past Bingham, at his mother. Her stirrups weren’t hooded, providing protection from heavy brush, and her moccasins were falling apart at the seams, despite her efforts to keep them in one piece.
He remembered his first pair of moccasins. His mother had just made them for him, a fine new pair. She had told him to take care of them, when one of the neighboring women, Ponchie, had come over to their teepee for a visit.
His mother had lifted him to the back of the woman’s horse, saying, “Ride this horse down to the creek and water it. Don’t get off while he is drinking.” Very proud of his new moccasins, he had ridden the half-mile to the water hole. As the horse stood in the stream drinking, Albert had been fascinated by the reflection of his moccasins in the water and had leaned farther and farther forward until he toppled over the horse’s neck into the creek. All his pride had melted away, and he had run crying back to their lodge.
A group of women were sitting there laughing at him. Instead of whipping him for getting his new moccasins wet, his mother had slipped them off his feet, taken him in her arms, and comforted him.
He loved her very much and never liked it when his father beat her. But Nantez was like that when he drank. Always. He had even backhanded him occasionally when in one of his drunken rages.
Albert’s eyes left his mother’s small figure, and found the big one that belonged to the white man, Halpern. He had seen the man drink the firewater several times and had waited for the usual drunken rage that followed. But nothing had happened.
He could tell his mother cared about this man, and he didn’t like that. He wished she would return to the Netdahe with him. He knew she wasn’t afraid, not like the white woman Halpern carried. His mother simply hated Nantez. She hated him with the fierceness of a mother bear riled by an intruder messing with her cubs.
Albert smiled to himself, comparing the image of his mother, so small, clawing and roaring ferociously. He had seen her do this when Nantez attacked her or even himself. It usually earned her a blackened eye or busted lip. It would be better if she behaved like the other squaws and crept away.
In the lead, Halpern was riding north, keeping their trail within the protective folds of the mountains and their foothills. Considering that he rode double, he was riding fast. They all rode fast.
Albert smiled to himself again. Once Nantez had them in his sights, he would not let them get away.
All day they rode. No breaking for meals. His mother, Gordon, and the man’s woman looked more tired than a Tarahumara Indian after a four-day run. Bingham didn’t look too rested either. The way he held himself in the saddle said that his wound had to be smarting bad.
Even Albert felt tired. He shifted in the saddle. He had learned to ride a pony without a saddle. His legs felt stiff. He was thirsty, too. Occasionally, they watered the horses at a stream and passed the canteens around before refilling them. But his last drink of water had been hours before, and the sun was hot.
The cool forest of pines and oaks had given way to scattered madrona, sycamores, and colossal cactus. The horses rambled down dank canyons and up through natural rock tunnels. The ride was so bumpy that Albert felt as if every tooth in his head rattled.
His mother swayed in the saddle, as if too weary to even remain upright. Behind her, Bingham said, “I suggest we call it quits for the day. There is a silver mine not far from here. It would offer a good view of the surrounding country and an excellent defense position, if we need it.”
The mine was located at the top of a hill overlooking a narrow valley. Anyone approaching could be seen from all but the rear side of the hill, which was on the north. An attack from the side would be unlikely.
The setting sun turned the clump of treetops to green canvas awnings over the entrance. A gondola track for hauling out ore faded into its darkness. Halpern
peered inside. “Hades could not be any blacker.”
“A lantern would help,” Bingham grumbled.
Albert’s mother took the hand of the white woman, who stood beside Halpern’s horse. “We’ll all feel better after we have a wee bite to eat.” She led her over to two slabs of adjoining rock and seated her.
Albert stared at her. She was beautiful. Pale as the moon. Slender as a flower stem. Eyes like the precious bluish opals found in these very mountains.
“Albert,” his mother said, “scout out a couple of stalks of dead cactus. We can improvise torches, should we have to retreat inside.”
He lingered, pretending he was adjusting the blue wool webbing of his saddle’s girth strap. Maybe this woman didn’t want Halpern for her man. Albert held up a canteen before her, offering a drink. He was too bashful to speak.
She shook her head.
Well, she was only a woman. He turned away to find Halpern eyeing him with amusement. He flushed. “The cactus,” he mumbled and went off.
Dinner was a collection of Liliana’s dishes, all cold: bacon, potatoes, beans, and tortillas. Albert wolfed them down. He missed his mother’s home-cooked meals. The others ate as hungrily as he. All except for Halpern’s woman. She only picked at her food.
The day was almost gone. The sky was a dark indigo color. He was tired but not sleepy. By the faint half-light of evening he cleared rocks and pebbles from a flat surface of rock. Sitting with his legs folded, he began to play solitaire.
His mother, eyes half-closed like a dozing cat, leaned against a tree and smoked a last cigarette.
Albert knew she wanted Halpern and was hurting that he was interested only in the yellow-haired woman.
Halpern was trying to talk with his woman now. He hunkered before her and held both her hands. She seemed to be only half-listening.
“You could’ve put the red jack on that black queen there, boy.”
He glanced over at the last column of cards. The preacher was right. “So, you want to play for me?”
Bingham spit a stream of tobacco juice. “The devil’s game.”
Albert flipped over another card, but the breeze caught it and sent it sailing. He lunged past Bingham. The card somersaulted across the dirt. He dived for it. At that instant, he saw the familiar slash of vermilion. War paint!
The Apache slinked from tree trunk to brush to rock, all the time moving in on Halpern. His back was to the warrior. Good, Albert thought. With the man dead, his mother would quit pining for him.
He returned to his position before the cards, but kept an eye on the warrior. Were there others? He glanced around but saw nothing. Maybe the Apache was an advance scout.
Or did the brush move over there? Maybe it was the tricky half-light.
The Apache was close now. Maybe a half-dozen yards away. Albert smiled to himself. Would the Apache give him Halpern’s scalp?
He devoted his full attention to the game and turned over a joker. He shimmied his head, as if to clear it of spider web thoughts. Had he not taken the joker from the deck?
He muttered a resounding cavalry curse that brought his mother’s sharp eyes on him.
There was no time for explanations to her about what the joker stood for, that a joker was held in reserve to escape from a predicament. He picked up a fist-size rock and played the joker: He hurled the rock into the skulking shadow behind Halpern and yelled, “Apaches!”
Halpern released the yellow-haired woman and whirled around, ready to spring. At the same time, Bingham swung his Winchester to his shoulder. He fired. In the darkness came the thud of something falling.
Diana screamed and fled inside the mine.
His mother backed toward the cave’s entrance. “Albert, get over here!”
“Found the nasty devil,” Bingham yelled out from the Stygian darkness. “Don’t seem to be any more of them out here.”
“There will be!” his mother called. She clamped her hand on Albert’s shoulder, as if to restrain him from going back outside to seek out his father.
He didn’t have to. He knew his father would find him.
§ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN §
“I say we make a run for it,” Bingham said. Gordon looked to her, and Mattie bit her lip. They all huddled in the mine’s outer room. Cactus torches, anchored in metal clamps for lanterns, flickered uneven light across the timbers, where Diana crouched. Her eyes were wide, her lips quivering.
The dark blue of bornite copper streaked the walls. Silver glinted like stars in the rock. In its heyday, the mine had produced most of the silver that had propped up the finances of Spain.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Nantez and his warriors have the darkness on their side. They know every wrinkle in the land blindfolded. If we’re in headlong flight, we could ride right off a cliff.”
“She’s right,” Gordon said. “It might be better to wait for daylight, when we have better odds. Should they attack tonight, Bingham has enough ammo to hold Nantez off until dawn.”
“No!”
All heads turned to Diana. She had sprung to her feet. Her hands were clenched at her sides. A vein pulsed wildly at her temple. “No! Not Nantez. He will not get me this time.”
Gordon said, “We won’t let that happen, Diana. We—”
“It happened before,” she said in her childishly high voice. “You didn’t protect me. He did horrible things to me. He’ll do them again.”
He started to rise, his hand outstretched toward her, but she spun around and ran along the wooden cart track back into the mine’s tunnel.
He grabbed the torch and started after her. Then he stopped, half turned. Mattie saw the horror that drained his face of its power. To descend into that mine had to be his worst nightmare.
She made to rise, but Bingham grabbed her arm. “Better begin loading our firearms to make ready for Nantez.”
For the first time, she noticed no condemnation in his gaze. What had happened back there at Cusarare? She nodded.
He passed her a bandoleer of bullets and an extra revolver, a Smith and Wesson. She began loading it as fast as her fumbling fingers could manage.
“Mother. Can I help?”
Dias muire! What was this? First, Bingham. Now her own son. She shook her head. “No, Albert. I don’t want ye having to take sides.”
“He already did,” Bingham said. “Out there. When he threw the rock at the buck and warned Halpern.”
She handed Albert her leather belt of cartridges. “All right. But ye can load. Only that. Do ye understand?”
He didn’t get the chance to answer her question. A shot, fired by Bingham, rang in her ears. “Missed!” Bingham growled. “But they’re out there. I’d swear on my missing scalp I saw one of those redskins.”
She raised the revolver to eye level. The night was so dark, it was hard to tell which shadows were actually moving.
A shot burst near her, and shattered rock stung her forearm. Several more shots were fired, too close for their safety. Squatting, the three of them quickly withdrew several paces. She imagined they must look like crabs.
The exchange of shots resumed and went on for a good five minutes. Then all was quiet.
“Think they have gone away?” Bingham asked.
“Not Nantez.”
She was right. The barrage of shots had been a cover for other furtive activities. Soon wisps of smoke drifted toward the mine’s mouth. “Sonofabitch, the durty devils mean to burn us out!”
That old fear rushed over her, engulfed her, choked her. She was back in that dry creek bed with fire ringing her . . . and Nantez choking her baby. God damn, she hated him!
Soon, billowing smoke roiled toward them. Her eyes stung. She couldn’t see a yard past the mine’s entrance. Albert coughed. “I should have killed the bugger when I had me chance,” she muttered.
Bingham glanced over at her. “Where’s Halpern? He should have been back by now.”
She didn’t answer. She knew a mine could have dozens of tun
nels that led to dead-ends. “Smoked meat.” She coughed. “That’s what we’re bloody well going to be.”
“Mother!”
She looked at Albert. He was pointing to the mine’s ceiling. She looked up. The smoke was rising. A smoky cord drifted, coiled, then snaked along the upper rock toward the mine’s depths.
“A draft!” Bingham said.
At once, she understood. The smoke was being pulled in by a draft. That meant there had to be another opening. It was not that unusual in mining operations to have several entrances. “Get the cactus stalks!”
She grabbed the one remaining torch and fled down the tunnel. The gondola track snaking along the damp floor and the smoke that rose to the ceiling guided her in her blind flight. Bingham and Albert sprinted after her along the descent that sloped gradually.
She passed two off-shoots. They were smaller than the main tunnel. She guessed that they were dead-ends. Bloody hell, what if Gordon and Diana had become lost in one of them?
To her dismay, the gondola track ended. She continued on. Then, even the main tunnel narrowed so that it was the same size as any of the dozens of others that branched off of it at that point. She stopped and peered out of her tiny circle of light. She was undecided. Which way to go?
“Gordon?” she called out.
“We’re here!”
HERE. Here. here.
The answer bounced and tumbled off the walls, so that she did not know where “here” was.
Behind them came the echo of many feet and faint voices. So, Nantez had decided not to wait for his smoked meat!
“Mother.” Once again, Albert pointed to the ceiling. The cord of smoke, much thinner now, drifted off to the left, along a narrow rocky corridor.
She plunged into its darkness. All three were forced to walk single file along a twisting tunnel. Mud squished beneath their feet. The dwindling cactus torch barely illuminated the way.
Occasionally, she looked up to determine if they were still following the smoke’s path. Jagged black walls disappeared into evil shadows.
Then she made the mistake of looking down. A sheer drop to her left revealed a poisonous green river lurking fifty feet below. She averted her gaze and hurried on.
Tame the Wildest Heart Page 21
