by Tabor Evans
When she was finished, she spoke to him in Chiricahua, and War Cloud translated:
“You are to keep the arm as still as possible tonight, to let the medicine do its work, keep the wounds from festering. By tomorrow, you will be good as new. But if you think this means we’re getting married or anything, you’re badly mistaken, White Eyes. You make a play for me, that donkey cock of yours will swell up, turn as black as an old dog turd, and fall off!”
War Cloud snickered devilishly as he reassembled his rifle. Magpie turned to her father, scowling.
Longarm snorted and popped the cork on his bottle of Tom Moore. There was still a goodly portion of the elixir left. He took several pulls and was glad to feel some relief in the burning of his arm.
An owl hooted in the far distance. It was a forlorn-sounding cry in the dusky silence. Longarm stared tensely in the direction from which it had come. War Cloud gazed in the same direction, sliding the loading tube out of the rear stock of his Spencer repeater and hastily filling it with fresh .56-caliber rounds from his shell belt.
It might have really been an owl. But Longarm didn’t think so. Obviously, War Cloud didn’t, either. And neither did their Chiricahua captive.
The brave sat back against the pine to which he was tied, slanting his eyes in a menacing, knowing smile.
“None of us best sleep too deep tonight, brother,” War Cloud advised.
“Hell,” Longarm said, feeling the short hairs rise across the back of his neck, “I never sleep a wink in ‘Pache country.”
• • •
Longarm took the second watch while War Cloud and Magpie relaxed, maybe dozing occasionally, in their fireless hollow amongst the rocks and pines.
The lawman’s arm ached. He didn’t want to get drunk and nod off, but he kept his traveling flask in the pocket of his frock coat, taking a modest, medicinal sip every now and then.
He walked slowly around the camp, navigating by the light of a sickle moon and the stars that were clear and sharp at this high elevation. It was cool here, too, and his breath plumed thinly as he breathed.
Despite the brandy, his senses were knife-edged. That was due to the raking fear any white man felt in Apache country. If he and the War Clouds were captured alive, they’d likely pray to die. No one could inflict more grisly horror on a man’s . . . and a young woman’s . . . body than an Apache. Especially when their victims had been trespassing on said Apaches’ sacred ground.
That was a transgression that piss-burned Apaches like no other. Fortunately, it was said there weren’t many Chiricahuas remaining in the Shadow Montañas, that the sect that followed the witch-god religion, or whatever the Apaches called it, had all but died off.
Of course, Longarm and the War Clouds had no right to be here. But they’d been assigned to this secret mission to bring Mrs. Belcher back to her husband and forestall a possible flare-up of the war with the Chiricahuas—not mention avoid a dustup with Mexico—so they had good reason to be here. Or good enough for Longarm. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it.
What he’d do if Mrs. Belcher didn’t want to return to her husband, he had no idea. There was no point in thinking about that yet. Best to walk the trail one step at a time . . .
Longarm stood between two tall pines, staring toward the large, black silhouette of Blood Mountain glistening in the moonlight like polished obsidian. He twisted around and sat down quickly, doffing his hat to make himself a smaller shadow. He held the Winchester low so that the light wouldn’t reflect off the barrel.
Beneath the quiet rasp of his own breathing, he’d heard something. It came again. The thud of a hoof. Followed by another.
The sounds faded and then rose again and became more regular. Apaches?
As if in answer to the lawman’s question there was the ring of iron on stone. That meant at least one of the horses was shod. Apaches didn’t shoe their horses. The riders coming along the same trail that Longarm and the War Clouds had been traveling were either gringos or Mexicans. Most likely, they were the same two who had been following Longarm’s party for the past few days.
The lawman’s heart increased its beat.
Slowly, he rose and made his way very slowly and quietly down the slope toward the trail. The thuds of the slowly approaching riders continued to grow.
When he reached the trail, he hunkered down between a piñon and a boulder. He doffed his hat again and edged a look around the boulder and along the trail meandering through the brush and rocks, rising and falling gently—a chalky pale thread in the darkness.
Two jostling shadows moved toward him. They were riding single file. The first rider was small and dark. The one he glimpsed behind the first appeared fair. Starlight twinkled off bridle chains and bits. Now he could hear their horses breathing and the squawk of saddle leather.
When they were twenty yards away from him, Longarm stepped out into the trail, glowering. He’d seen the long, red hair on the second rider.
Keeping his voice low but pitched with fury, he said, “What in God’s name do you two think you’re doing out here?”
Both horses jerked with starts. The first one on which rode Major Belcher’s housekeeper, Blue Feather, turned sideways, shaking its head. The second horse came on at a frightened trot and stopped slightly ahead of the first horse when Leslie McPherson sawed back on the reins.
“Christ!” she rasped, more startled than her horse. “Longarm, is that you . . . I hope . . . ?”
Blue Feather had reached into the scabbard strapped to her saddle and withdrew a Winchester carbine. She held it across her saddlebows, her wide, dark eyes sharply reflecting the starlight.
“You’re damn lucky it’s me!”
Longarm strode up between the two women and their blowing horses, shifting his angry gaze from one to the other. Leslie wore black denims and a denim jacket over a pearl blouse, a tan slouch hat on her head. Blue Feather wore buckskin breeches and a calico blouse with a blue bandanna on her head, knotted behind.
“I had to come, Longarm,” Leslie said. “I knew I was taking a hell of a chance, but when Blue Feather told me she knew this country, I . . .”
“Two women riding alone in Apache country is insane. You’re damn lucky you’re still alive. We ran into a pack of ’em only a few hours ago.”
Leslie looked at his arm. “Are you hurt?”
“Not bad but my point is you could be in their camp about now, and they could . . .” He saw no reason to continue the thought. “Ah, Christ. Get off those mounts and we’ll lead ’em back to our camp. Now that you’re here, you’re here, and we have to figure out what to do with you.”
The women dismounted and followed Longarm off the trail and up the rise through the boulders and pines.
As they approached the camp, Longarm quietly hailed War Cloud, whom he found standing with his rifle aimed atop a boulder snag. The scout had no doubt heard the riders before they’d even reached Longarm. Magpie was crouched behind a ponderosa, but now she stepped out and tilted her head to one side, peering incredulously at their unexpected guests.
War Cloud whistled and depressed his Spencer’s heavy hammer. “Whoo-ee,” the scout said softly. “That sure wasn’t a good idea, Miss Leslie.” He spoke to Blue Feather in her own tongue. The young Apache woman kept her features as expressionless, ignoring him.
Longarm fumed as he led the women to where his and the War Clouds’ horses were tied in the heavy brush. As if he didn’t have enough trouble—now he had two more women to worry about!
Chapter 17
“What in the hell were you thinking?” Longarm asked Leslie when the women’s horses had been tended and tied with the others.
The party that had grown to five sat forming a ragged circle in the bowl of sandy ground in which they’d spread their gear, near the captive whom War Cloud had gagged in order to keep the brave from calling out to any
of his brethren who might be lurking around.
Leslie leaned back against a rock, beside Blue Feather, knees raised, her arms around them. “I had to come and talk personally to my sister. You don’t know her, Custis. No one understands her better than I do. Only I know how hard her marriage has been on Lucy. I don’t think she’ll come back if she knows she has to return to Anson Belcher. And I don’t blame her. The only way she’ll come back is if I can convince her she won’t have to return to him, that I will help her get away from that man. You see, she’s almost as afraid of our father as she is of Anson. I want to convince her that we’ll form a united front against both men.”
Longarm considered what she’d told him. “Still,” he said, “this was a damn stupid ploy, Leslie. War Cloud and I were sent to slip across the border—just two men because two were less likely to be discovered than a whole pack.”
Leslie looked at Magpie. “What about her?”
“She’s War Cloud’s daughter and she can carry her own weight. Hell, she can track as well as either one of us can.”
He glanced at the young Coyotero woman. Magpie was favoring Leslie with a hard stare. That look almost convinced Longarm that she was as much a threat to Leslie as any of the Chiricahuas.
Leslie ignored the girl and turned to Longarm. “Well, we’re here now—Blue Feather and I. And we’re staying with you. And I think you’ll see that I’m much more of an asset and less of a liability than you think. Especially when you meet my sister.”
She glanced at War Cloud. “How much farther do we have before we reach Black Twisted Pine’s camp?”
War Cloud sat near their prisoner, one knee raised, an arm resting on it. “Less than a day now if he is where I think he will be—at the base of Blood Mountain. And if he is in the Shadow Montañas, that is most likely where we will find him.”
“The mountain gives strength to women?” Leslie asked.
“That is what Black Twisted Pine’s people believe. Chiricahua women who’ve become sick in their souls go there to have their souls restored by the witch god who lives in the mountain. She in fact gives strength to all Chiricahuas who go there and perform the sacred rites—but women she endows with a special strength. Many come away from there not only healed, but they themselves become healers.”
Leslie nodded thoughtfully. “I can see why Lucy wanted to be taken there. Black Twisted Pine must love her very much to have done this for her.”
“Well, I just hope she’ll be ready to leave when we finally catch up to her,” Longarm said.
War Cloud added, “I just hope the Chiricahuas won’t be too angry that we have trespassed on their sacred territory . . . and killed several of their own warriors in getting here.”
Longarm winced. “There’s that, too.” He glanced at their young prisoner with the two eagle feathers in his hair. “At least we have him. Won’t hurt to give the Chiricahuas some incentive not to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Your arm,” Leslie said, rising and walking over to him. “Let me have a look—”
Magpie leaped to her feet and rushed over, growling in Apache and pointing at where Leslie had been sitting. Leslie looked flabbergasted.
“My gosh,” she said, clapping a hand to her chest and glancing at War Cloud. “What’s she saying?”
War Cloud chuckled and shook his head. “She says to leave her medicine alone and set your . . . um . . . to go sit down and leave the big man alone. She will tend him.”
“Well, excuse me,” Leslie said, glaring at Magpie, who glared back at her.
“Ladies, please,” Longarm said.
War Cloud sighed and grabbed his rifle. “I’m going to keep watch.”
“You’ve had your turn,” Longarm said, reaching for his Winchester. “It’s still my watch.”
“Ah, hell, Custis—I won’t be able to sleep a wink with all these women around. You stay here. I doubt either one of those two is going to let you out of their sight, anyway.”
With that, the scout strode off, his rifle on his shoulder.
Longarm looked at the women still staring at each other and then grabbed his rifle. He needed to get away from the woman-heavy camp as much as War Cloud did.
He said, “You all stay here. Don’t go wandering off.”
“Where are you going, Custis?” Leslie asked.
“Off to look for a little peace and quiet,” he grumbled as he climbed a low ridge north of the camp.
• • •
Longarm didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep leaning back against a boulder until someone nudged him awake. He gave a startled grunt and started to raise the Winchester he’d been holding across his thighs, when he saw War Cloud squatting beside him.
“Easy, amigo,” the scout said, glancing at the sky. “First light.”
Longarm looked around. Sure enough, a couple of hours had passed. The first faint pearl light of the false dawn was lightly brushed across the sky in the east. The monolith of Blood Mountain stood in black relief against it.
He moved his wounded arm, winced against the heavy, dull pain of the arrow wound. As War Cloud started down the slope toward the camp, where all three women were sleeping curled in their blankets, and their captive brave sat back against the pine he was tied to, Longarm plucked his flask from his inside coat pocket and took a good-sized pull.
That eased the pain somewhat. He returned the flask to its pocket and then stiffly gained his feet and followed the scout down to the camp obscured by misty gray shadows.
Quietly, they grabbed their gear and hauled it off to where the horses were tied about forty yards away, at the base of the northern ridge. They glanced at each other conspiratorially over the backs of their horses, having decided what they were going to do without discussion.
Longarm rigged up his own horse and the brave’s. When he had filled his two canteens at the freshet and hung the strap over his saddle horn, he saw the three young women moving toward him and War Cloud, weaving through the trees.
“Why didn’t you wake us?” Leslie said, blinking sleep from her eyes.
“Because you’re not going.”
Leslie stopped. So did Blue Feather, still so groggy that she almost ran into Leslie. Magpie kept coming, stooped beneath the weight of the saddle she carried on her shoulder.
Leslie said, “What’re you talking about? I came all this way to see my sister, and that’s exactly what . . .”
She let her voice trail off, frowning angrily as Longarm shook his head. He slid his Winchester into its saddle boot and walked over to the girl. At the same time, War Cloud spoke firmly in Coyotero to his daughter, gesturing vehemently with his hands.
Longarm looked down at Leslie frowning up at him. “You and Blue Feather are staying here. Magpie’s going to stay with you, make sure you don’t come after us.”
“No, Custis! I’m—”
Longarm pressed two fingers to the girl’s rich lips, cutting her off. He tried a tender, sympathetic smile. “I know you’re concerned about your sister. But War Cloud and I will have an easier time getting into Black Twisted Pine’s camp if it’s just him and me and our prisoner. I promise I’ll tell Lucy you’re here and that you want to see her. That’ll likely give her added incentive to leave. If all goes according to plan, she’ll be with us when we return later this afternoon.”
Leslie opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again when she saw the stern, stubborn look on Longarm’s face.
“You follow us again,” he told her in a deep, commanding voice, “I’ll spank your bare ass and tie you to the nearest tree.”
Leslie’s eyes widened. She flushed, glanced at War Cloud, who had his lips compressed, holding back a snicker.
Magpie didn’t look happy, either. She obviously wanted to finish the journey she’d started, but it appeared that she was going to abide by her father’s wishes and
remain here with Leslie and Blue Feather. Magpie would act as both prison guard and protector in the event that any Chiricahuas happened upon the camp.
It was a scowling trio of young women whom Longarm and War Cloud rode away from ten minutes later, Longarm leading the mustang of their captive young Chiricahua, who remained gagged and tied to his mount. When the party reached the trail, they headed north toward Blood Mountain shouldering ominously back against the lightening eastern sky.
Soon, if they were lucky, they’d find Lucy Belcher and her lover, Black Twisted Pine. If they were even luckier—probably a lot luckier—they’d be alive to see another sunset.
Given the Chiricahuas’ particularly excruciating torture methods, Longarm just hoped that he and War Cloud would want to be.
Chapter 18
As they rode through the early morning, following the Indian trail through low hills carpeted in forest and then around the shoulders of eroded bluffs and tabletop mesas, forever rising and falling over the harsh terrain, Blood Mountain seemed to remain an unwavering distance away from them.
It was almost as though the mountain were sliding ever backward away from Longarm, War Cloud, and their captive just as they tried futilely to reach it. Longarm didn’t have trouble imagining that there was indeed a female spirit inside the mountain—one that enjoyed laughing at foolish men trying to court her.
War Cloud took the lead, following the trail, his rifle resting on his right shoulder. Their gagged brave with the eagle feather headband rode behind, his mustang’s reins tied to the tail of War Cloud’s mount. Longarm rode behind the lad, keeping his Winchester aimed at the middle of the kid’s slender back.
War Cloud stopped suddenly. He peered to his right, pointed out a thin puff of dark smoke unfurling skyward. Just as the cloud thinned, another rose to replace it, and then another and another, irregularly spaced. War Cloud didn’t need to explain the significance of the smoke to Longarm. The lawman knew they’d been spied, and the smoke was most likely meant to warn the main camp of interlopers.
