Kid Calhoun

by Joan Johnston

  She swallowed hard. Despite her professed ruthlessness, Anabeth hadn’t been able to shoot a sleeping man. Now the villain was fully awake, his venomous eyes full of murder and mayhem. Only he was unarmed, defenseless. She could have her revenge for Booth’s death, but she would have to commit coldblooded murder to get it. Jake’s words replayed in her head. It makes you no better than they are.

  “You ain’t gonna shoot, Kid, so put that gun down before you get hurt.”

  “Stay back! I will shoot!” Anabeth warned.

  Wat took a step forward. Nothing happened.

  Except the gun began visibly shaking in Anabeth’s hand.

  Wat took another step. His lips pulled back to expose a ghoulish grin. “Go ahead and shoot her, Teague.”

  Anabeth heard the snick behind her and knew Teague had cocked his gun. She turned and fired at the same moment.

  Teague looked from her horrified eyes to the hole in his belly. “You shot me!” he said. “Goddamn if you didn’t kill me!”

  “You’ve always done what you were told, Teague,” Anabeth said in a raspy voice. “You even shot Booth because someone told you to do it. This time you should have stayed out of it.”

  By now the other outlaws were also awake, but none of them dared to reach for their guns while Anabeth held a weapon aimed at Wat. Things were at a dangerous stalemate, and someone besides Teague was surely going to die.

  Finally, Jake conceded that if he didn’t do something, the Kid was going to get herself killed.

  “You’re outnumbered,” Wat said, reaching for the gun in Anabeth’s hand. “Hold it right where you are—”

  “No, you hold it right where you are,” Jake said.

  When Rankin whirled to search out the voice in the darkness, the outlaws dove for cover.

  And Anabeth ran like hell on wheels.

  Jake kept the outlaws pinned down with gunfire while Anabeth escaped into the night.

  When the shooting stopped a few minutes later, the outlaws realized they were alone. Their prisoner and whoever had called out to her from the darkness were both long gone.

  13

  Claire had been Wolf’s captive for a week. She still hadn’t gotten over the shock of finding her son among the savages.

  She had stared at the small boy backed up against an Apache brave and known it was Jeffrey. She had been sure of it. The boy’s eyes were as green as the leaves on the trees. Surely no Apache had green eyes! His banded hair had been slicked down with some kind of animal grease that made it considerably darker than the blond it had been three years ago. His nine-year-old body was lithe with muscle it had never had and tanned nearly as dark as the copper shade of the Apache boy beside him.

  “That’s my son!” she had cried, pointing at the buckskin-clad boy.

  Wolf had put his arms around her to restrain her. “Come away from here, Little One. This boy’s parents are known to me. He is not your son.”

  Claire had struggled to be free. “You don’t understand. That boy is my son!”

  Wolf looked at the child Claire had pointed out. “That is the son of Broken Foot. He is called White Eagle.”

  “His name is Jeffrey,” Claire insisted. “I thought he was dead. Sam told me—oh, Sam!” She choked on a sob of frustration. “You lied to me! Jeff wasn’t killed. He was stolen!”

  Claire’s throat was swollen with joy and with pain. To find Jeffrey was a miracle she couldn’t have imagined. She wanted to ask her son about everything he had been doing for the three years they had been separated. Most of all she wanted to hold him in her arms, to feel his heart beat next to her own.

  The boy Claire had pointed out turned around and said something to the Indians behind him, who laughed.

  Claire turned her eyes up to Wolf. “What did he say?”

  Wolf frowned. “You do not want to know.”

  “I do! What did he say?”

  “He was making fun of you—of your size. He said you would barely make a mouthful for the camp dogs.”

  Claire turned wounded golden eyes on the boy and saw the disdain and defiance in his eyes. She felt a twisting stab in her belly as the truth dawned on her. This boy was Jeffrey, but he was no longer her son. The child who stared back at her with such dislike and scorn must have no memory of what they had shared together. It wasn’t possible that he could remember her and yet treat her so cruelly, was it?

  She thought of the Tripley boy, who had been returned to his parents after spending four years with the Apache. James Tripley had ruthlessly murdered his white family. It occurred to Claire that perhaps Jeffrey had purposely chosen not to acknowledge her.

  It was like losing him all over again.

  Claire looked down at the pitch-covered water basket she held. The ache in her chest was as strong a week later as it had been the day she had stumbled past the crowd of dark-eyed strangers toward the stream she and Wolf had crossed to reach the village. She headed there again.

  Claire dropped to her knees beside the stream and stared with unseeing eyes into the water that rippled by her. In the past week her life had been turned upside down. She needed to put the jumbled pieces of her life back together in a way that made some sense.

  Why had Sam lied to her about Jeffrey’s death? How had he faced her every day knowing the awful secret he had harbored? She tried to imagine what might have caused him to tell her Jeffrey was dead. The obvious answer was that he had wanted to spare her the pain of knowing her son was perhaps alive and living among the savages. Sam had also seen the carnage left by the Tripley boy. But, Sam, she cried to the heavens above her, at least I would have been able to hope!

  Mightn’t that have been worse? Look at the truth she had discovered. How long had it taken Jeff to learn to hate her and Sam? How long had it taken him to become truly a savage? What if they had found him like this and tried to bring him back to the white world. Would Jeff have been able to learn to live as though his captivity had never happened? Not if the Tripley boy was any example.

  Claire closed her eyes in acceptance of the awful truth. Jeff’s life among the Indians—who taught their children the arts of thievery and merciless killing—might have changed him forever. She doubted that her son’s life among the Indians could ever have been erased from his memory.

  But if that were true, wasn’t it equally true that Jeff must retain some memory of his life with her and Sam? Claire had confronted her son that first day in a way that had made it impossible for him to acknowledge her without having to deal with the reactions of all those other Indians. Maybe if she had approached him alone he would have run into her arms.

  Well, perhaps that was hoping for too much. But surely in only three years Jeff had not forgotten all the English he had learned as a child. Surely she would at least be able to talk to him, to find out if he was happy, if he had ever thought of her and Sam, if he had ever hoped for rescue and despaired when it did not come. Surely there was some hope that she could find a way to reach her son.

  Hope. What a powerful word it was! It gave Claire the courage to survive her primitive surroundings, to face the challenges that were constantly thrown in her path. And to have a reason to conquer them.

  The woman Wolf had called Night Crawling tugged on the sleeve of the fringed buckskin clothing she had been given to wear. Night Crawling pointed at the stream, at the basket Claire stilled hugged against her, and then back at the water again. Even without words, her meaning wasn’t difficult to understand.

  “All right,” Claire said. “I’m filling the pitcher.” When she had it full of water and stood again, the old woman started pulling her toward Wolf’s lodging. Claire followed, noticing for the first time since she had arrived in the village the sharp rocks and dew-damp grass beneath her moccasined feet.

  Suddenly everything around her was vivid, as though someone had enhanced all the colors, all the smells, all the textures. Her eyes sought out the Apache children laughing and playing with a hoop nearby. It startled her, somehow, t
o discover that such a savage people also began life as children playing games.

  Claire breathed deeply, catching the tangy scent of venison cooking and a breeze redolent with manure from the herd of horses she knew must be picketed somewhere among the pungent juniper and pines. All were familiar smells, and yet slightly foreign.

  She cocked her head for the soft, guttural sounds of a group of Apache women talking as they pounded seeds in stone bowls. Gossiping, she supposed, as women everywhere spoke of home and family and hopes and dreams.

  Claire looked up at the fluffy clouds drifting by in a sky so blue and bright it hurt her eyes. Was the sky so big, so brilliant at home? She thought it must be, only she had not seen it for so long it seemed brand new.

  The stones pressed into the arches of her feet, making her more careful where she stepped. The small hurts surprised Claire because she had not felt—anything—in so long that she actually welcomed the pain as a sign that she was once again among the living. In fact, Claire had not felt so alive in the three years since she had first learned that her son had been killed by Apaches.

  She followed Night Crawling back to Wolf’s lodging. There the old woman showed her where to put the water.

  Claire had never considered what the life of an Apache woman was like, but over the past week she had been getting a rugged introduction. Every day she learned something new. Night Crawling handed Claire a large burden basket and gestured for her to come along.

  Claire recognized the narrow-leafed yucca plant when the old woman pointed it out, but had no idea what she was supposed to do. The old woman broke off the slender green central stem, which was still without blossoms, and put it in the large basket they had brought along.

  Once they had a number of stems in the basket they headed back to camp, where the woman instructed Claire how to peel the pieces of stalk and cut them up. They carried the yucca to a wide, deep hole that contained heated stones that made it into an oven. The prepared yucca was placed on the heated stones and covered with dampened grass. Then the hole was covered with earth to bake the plants inside.

  That was only the beginning of the workday. Claire went with the old woman to gather wild onions and helped her strip bark from the yellow pine and scrape off the sweet insides. When that was done, they gathered wood.

  Night Crawling tied the short pieces of brush and sticks together in a bundle at either end with a hide rope, leaving a loop in the middle. Then she showed Claire how to put the loop over her head and across her chest to support the load of wood on her back.

  Claire was indignant at the thought of becoming a beast of burden, until she saw the old woman do the same thing herself with another load of firewood.

  Once back at camp, Claire was given the disgusting job of skinning several wood rats and a couple of prairie dogs. Not that she found the skinning difficult. It was the thought of eating the animals later on that made her stomach queasy. She was relieved to see there was also venison cooking.

  Later in the afternoon, Claire was shown how to replace the soles of a pair of buckskin moccasins which she felt sure belonged to Wolf. While she removed the worn-out soles from the decorated upper part of the moccasin she wondered for the first time where Wolf had spent the day. Over the past week, she hadn’t had a spare moment to think about him. She had rarely even seen him.

  Claire might not have seen Wolf, but the same was not true of the reverse. In fact, Wolf had checked often to see how his captive was faring. But he did not interfere with the woman’s work his mother had set her to do. Once again, the white woman had amazed him with her strength and fortitude.

  They met again for the first time in a week face to face over the campfire at the evening meal. They were sitting cross-legged outside on the ground. As Wolf chewed on a piece of venison he asked, “How was your day?”

  “Hard.”

  “It is good that you learn to do a woman’s work.”

  “Why?”

  Wolf was stymied for a moment. It was easier to answer the question with a question. “Why should you not?”

  “Since you plan to trade me for Anabeth, I won’t be here long enough for it to matter.”

  Wolf’s lips flattened. “Perhaps.” Before any trade could be made, he had to find Stalking Deer. That was not proving an easy task.

  “While I’m here there is something I want,” Claire said.

  “What is that?”

  “To learn your language. Will you teach me?”

  Now it was Wolf’s turn to ask, “Why?”

  “I want to be able to speak to my son.” And perhaps persuade him to escape this place with me.

  Wolf put down his venison and wiped the grease from his fingers onto his thighs. It was a custom every Apache followed, to thus feed his legs, to keep them strong for running. “I have spoken to Broken Foot. He says there was no woman near the canyon where he found White Eagle.”

  “I was at home. My son was with my husband.”

  “You have no man to share your blankets.”

  Claire’s head turned sharply. “How do you know that?”

  “I looked into each window of the house by the big rock to find Stalking Deer. You slept alone.”

  “My husband was recently killed by outlaws.”

  “So you have no man to hunt for you, to protect you from your enemies?”

  Claire took a deep breath. “No. I have no man. All I have left is the land where I lived with my husband. And now my son.”

  “You have no son,” Wolf said in a hard voice. “White Eagle has a new mother and father now.”

  “But he’s my son!” Claire cried.

  “Enough! He is Apache. He cannot go back to live among the white man.”

  “Then I must learn Apache! You will teach me.”

  Wolf’s eyes narrowed. Even Stalking Deer did not dare so much. An Apache brave took orders from no man—or woman.

  “If I have to stay here, it will be easier if I can speak the language,” Claire reasoned. “Please.”

  Wolf hesitated. To grant her request would make it necessary for him to spend time with her. The thought of sitting next to her, of looking into her golden cat’s eyes as he taught her the Apache words that described his world, caused a tautness in his body. The temptation was there to deny her, to avoid the situation entirely because he was not comfortable with it. But to deny her, he would have to acknowledge to himself the strange power she had over him. And that he refused to do.

  “It shall be as you ask, Little One,” he said at last. “I will teach you the words.”

  Claire clasped her hands together between her knees to keep from clapping them. There was a chance now that she could reach Jeffrey. Once she knew the words …

  “When can we start?” she asked.

  “Let me eat in peace, woman.”

  Claire dropped her eyes, unwilling to allow him to see her triumph. She forced herself to eat some venison and even some of the baked yucca she had helped to make, which wasn’t the best-tasting vegetable she had ever eaten, but not the worst either.

  They had almost finished eating when they heard shrieks and shouting, followed by more shrieks. It sounded like the commotion was headed in their direction. Claire searched the gathering darkness for some sign of what had caused the excitement. She got her answer in the form of a black-and-white-striped animal that scurried practically across her toes.

  “Don’t—”

  Whatever warning Wolf was about to give was lost in Claire’s startled cry. “Skunk!” She jumped up, frightening the animal, who turned tail and let go. In the shadows someone stopped short, not bothering to chase the skunk any farther, because the animal had left the best part of himself behind. As a gift for Claire.

  Claire was gasping at the pungent perfume that covered her from head to toe.

  “He Makes Trouble!”

  “A lot of trouble,” Claire rasped. She couldn’t seem to catch a breath of air that didn’t choke her.

  “He Makes Trouble
!” Wolf said again.

  Suddenly a boy of about six appeared before Wolf, his face split by a wide grin. “Did you call for me?”

  “This is nothing to smile about!” Wolf chastised. “Did you set that animal loose in camp?”

  The grin disappeared, replaced by a rebellious look. “It was only a little skunk.”

  Wolf’s nose pinched as he caught a whiff of the reek coming from the white woman. “It was big enough,” he muttered.

  “Am I hearing you right?” Claire held her clothes away from her body—as though that would help keep the awful smell from sinking into her skin. “Did that child purposely chase that skunk in my direction?”

  Wolf sighed. He Makes Trouble had earned his name. For a child so young he had provided more than his share of chaos in the camp. “Go away, He Makes Trouble. You are not wanted here.”

  Furious as she was at the child for what had happened, Claire couldn’t help noticing how the boy stiffened when Wolf ordered him to go away. But there was no remorse in the uptilted chin, the pugnacious jut of the boy’s jaw as he faced Wolf, then turned and ran off into the darkness.

  “Come, I will take you down to the river so you can wash yourself. The smell will not completely disappear, but at least we will be able to breathe again.”

  Claire followed him gratefully to the stream. She couldn’t help asking, “Where are that boy’s parents? Can’t they keep him from doing things like this?”

  “His mother is dead. His father … He is like me. He has no father.”

  “His father is dead?”

  Wolf shook his head. “His mother slept with many men. He Makes Trouble has many fathers.”

  Claire was confused. “I don’t understand. How can a boy without a father have many fathers?”

  “Each man who shared the blankets with He Makes Trouble’s mother helped to create him. Some part of each man can be found in the boy. He has my eyes,” Wolf said.

  “Your eyes? You slept with his mother, too?”