The Quantro Story

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “You saw them ?”

  “Yeah. I was trying to find out who you were. For all I knew, you could’ve bin some badman desperado.”

  Quantro let the witticism slip. “That was a couple of them. It turned out handy for me they were wanted. It saved me answering a lot of awkward questions, and the bounty money allowed me to keep on the trail.”

  Pete nodded. “When I saw the flyers I figured you might be a lawman. If I’d found a badge on you I’d have left you to die.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, these people up here, the Apache, they took me in like I told you, and I was hurt real bad. If you’d have been the law, and we’d brought you back up here, then as soon as you were fit to ride you’d have been headed straight for the States to shout your mouth off about the renegade Apache hiding out up in the mountains. The army would’ve come straight here to drive them back to some stinkin’ reservation. Besides that,” he chuckled, “I don’t cotton to lawmen much myself. I reckon they’ve got a funny kinda smell about them. Mind you, some’s worse than others.”

  “You’re surely right,” Quantro commented. “I met me a few when I was on the trail. Only difference between some of them and the outlaws is a silver star on their chest.”

  Pete grinned and blew smoke to the roof. “You’re right there, boy.” He drew on his cigarette slowly and watched Quantro’s eyelids flicker closed. The long story of the manhunt had used what little strength his days of coma and sleep had replenished. A tale worth telling, too, thought Pete. A two year hunt over half the territories in the south west, badlands and Indian nations too. No little task.

  Pete sniffed. He admired the boy’s guts.

  ***

  White-Wing stopped in her tracks the first time she came under the firm stare of Quantro’s blue eyes. She blushed, the color glowing in her cheeks, eyes downcast to her tiny feet encased in their beaded kabuns. Pete laughed and told her in Apache to fetch food. She turned obediently and stooped through the low doorway, leaving Quantro to look enquiringly at him.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I told her the handsome white brave had huge pains of rumbling hunger in his greedy stomach.” He chuckled. “Looks like you got greedy eyes for somethin’ else too. You almost ate her up just lookin’ at her.”

  “She your woman?”

  “No.”

  “Then do you blame me? It’s not often a man comes out of a fever when he thought he was going to die, and the first thing he sees is a woman like that. Makes a man want to live. What’s her name ?”

  “White-Wing. She’s the one who looked after you while you were sick. Only reason she wasn’t here when you woke was I sent her to get some sleep. She’s sat by you day and night.” He sniffed. “I had you down for dead, boy. If you owe your life to anyone, it’s her.”

  Quantro raised an eyebrow. “I can’t think of a better debt to repay. What kind of payment would she like?”

  While they were both laughing, White-Wing returned with two steaming bowls filled with meat stew. She propped Quantro up and held the bowl for him while he ate and talked with Pete. He shoveled the spoonfuls hungrily into his mouth. It was his first solid food for a week and he relished every morsel.

  Each time the spoon rose from the bowl to his mouth, the eyes of the Indian girl followed its progress.

  From being unconscious and helpless, the handsome blonde Americano had come alive and he ate with gusto, his once still features animated as he chewed and talked. He smiled, laughed, frowned, each expression a source of delight to her. She knew he was somebody important, she felt it inside. His beautiful buckskin horse and the expensive saddle only confirmed it. Why he was special she did not know, but he was indeed special to her. Didn’t her breath race, and her heart beat faster just being close to him?

  Under her watchful gaze, the two men finished eating, and she took their bowls outside to clean them. Crawling-Snake was there on his rock, watching her as intently as ever. She paid no attention to him. He was arrogant and brash, always showing off, and she thought little of him.

  As she bent to scour the wooden bowls Crawling-Snake ambled over from his rock and began to make small talk. She answered only when necessary, and let him ramble on, avoiding his searching eyes. When at last he asked her to walk with him, she replied tersely she had far too much work to do to idle away her time looking at flowers and clouds in the sky.

  Crawling-Snake ignored the derision in her voice, the hard words were enough to bear without the way they were said. He looked at her, hard and long, then snorted and stalked away back to his rock. He knew what her trouble was. The Americano. Well he, Crawling-Snake, the rightful chief of their tribe, would see about that.

  White-Wing looked after the retreating Crawling-Snake with a rueful grin. She had certainly put him in his place. She had seen the hungry way he stared at her, his eyes roaming over her body. Somehow, his crazy gaze seemed to strip her entirely, as though his eyes probed into her very body itself. He was mad. She was quite certain of it. She repressed a shudder.

  She cast him away from her mind, glad he had gone, and returned to more pleasant thoughts. Immediately, the blonde Americano with the strange name sprang back into her mind. Quantro. She said it to herself over and over, rolling the word around her tongue and accustoming herself to its strangeness. The more she said it, the more she liked the sound of it.

  ***

  The aroma from the cooking pots drifted on the breeze.

  Dogs wandered through the camp among the wickiups, snuffling and picking at scraps, and the children pulled at the earth and tossed clods at the scavenging dogs. The women bent over their fires, stirring and adding herbs. Some were grinding corn into flour on little round stones, talking to their neighbors, occasionally shooting out an arm to drag back a child that had strayed too far. Now and again, one of the women would slip a glance over her shoulder, or from under her hair at the Americano who sat outside in the sunshine, smoking and watching the mountains.

  His back against the woven wall of the wickiup and his injured arm supported by a sling, Quantro sat and watched the Apache go about their lives. The hodge podge of dwellings was strung out over the plateau of the mountain top, and he calculated there must be about fifty or sixty in the renegade band, plus a few children. The contrast between the stories he had heard of the cruel Apache and the actual people themselves was great. They seemed as much alike to their legends as horses were to cattle. They appeared to be ordinary people, eager only to pursue their way of life, going about their work peacefully, with almost a gentleness.

  Only once had he noticed any animosity in the inquisitive glances. The offender had been a sullen, tough looking buck of about thirty summers, standing disdainfully apart from the others. When Quantro had mentioned this to Pete, the prospector had merely shrugged and explained about Crawling-Snake. The Apache’s opinion was general knowledge. Quantro listened and determined to keep his eye on the Indian.

  From his resting place, Quantro could see the buckskin horse roaming with the small herd of Indian ponies on the fringe of the camp. Pete was right, the stallion was feeding well. The shadow of his ribs had vanished and his coat was lustrous again. He was frisky too, walking among the mares and nosing one or two here and there as the fancy took. As he watched, the stallion singled out a paint pony and nudged it tentatively. The agile pony wheeled quickly and aimed a kick at the buckskin’s shoulder. The stallion threw back his head and snorted, then moved in again for another playful nudge. The mare twisted, her flowing mane dancing in the sunlight, and snapped at his neck. But the buckskin skipped away, turning his head aside, and the mare’s yellow teeth snapped shut on fresh air.

  Quantro laughed. White-Wing raised her head from her pot and looked at him. In back of him, Pete’s voice reached out into the clear air.

  “Like you, that horse.” He sniffed. “Hit and run.”

  ***

  The next day Quantro and White-Wing were sitting outside the wickiup, watchi
ng the buckskin stallion teasing the mares again. Quantro’s rich, full-throated laugh was a sharp contrast to the wind chime tinkling effect of the girl’s, and Pete’s chuckle was ample background.

  Pete rolled a smoke and sniffed. “That horse wants some exercise. Get the bedsprings out of him.”

  “Yeah,” Quantro agreed, “but I ain’t fit enough yet. He takes a bit of handling.”

  “Time I took me a ride anyway,” Pete sniffed. “I’ll ride him for you, if you’ve a mind.”

  “Sure,” Quantro smiled lazily, then let his face fall straight. “I’d be much obliged.”

  Pete nodded then rose in search of Quantro’s saddle and bridle. He hefted them to his shoulder and set off towards the small herd of ponies. Quantro smiled again, well aware of what was about to happen.

  The Indian ponies scattered from the white man but the stallion merely gave him a sideways glance, twitching its ears and snorting gently. He remained quiet as Pete swung the saddle up and over on to its broad back and allowed the man to insert the metal bit of the bridle into his mouth, chewing at the bit while the leathers slipped over his head. Pete fastened the tarnished buckle of the chin strap by the horse’s ears, then elbowed the stallion in the ribs and pulled the saddle cinch a notch tighter.

  White-Wing watched inquisitively, and Quantro touched her arm and jerked his head at the scene on the fringe of the camp with a chuckle. She looked at him and frowned, but Quantro smiled and pointed.

  The buckskin stood quietly champing on the bit in his mouth, growing accustomed to the feel of it after the fortnight of rest, while Pete finished tightening buckles. He gathered the reins in his left hand and put his foot into the stirrup. The instant his weight pulled on the leathers, the stallion craned his neck around in a fast arc and his teeth closed on Pete’s hip. It was a swift, unexpected bite and Pete jumped back, rubbing himself.

  Quantro could see Pete’s mouth working, but could not hear what he was saying to the horse. But he could imagine. Beside him, White-Wing’s laughter tinkled in the mountain air.

  Pete stopped rubbing his sore hip, and gathered the reins. This time, before he put his foot into the stirrup, he pulled the right rein tight over the horse’s neck, so the stallion was forced to turn his head away. He slipped his boot into the stirrup again. The stallion began to side-step from the strange tactic and Pete swung up into the high-cantled, fine saddle.

  His right foot was barely in the other stirrup when the stallion erupted. He leapt into the air to come crashing back to earth, landing jarringly on four straight legs, his head down. Pete lurched in the saddle, his Stetson twirling away to land in the dust, but he caught hold of the saddle horn. He hauled back on the reins to bring the stallion’s head up, but as he pulled, the horse corkscrewed into the air. Another jarring straight-legged landing.

  Quantro could see Pete clenching his teeth. He laughed as the buckskin wheeled into the air, performing short, twisting leaps, bucking and kicking. The snorting animal never repeated the same pattern twice.

  Pete lasted all of five seconds.

  As the buckskin hit the earth, blowing angrily, Pete parted company with the saddle and crumpled into the dusty earth. Before he had time to roll over and stand up, the stallion had walked away and was quite calm again, as though nothing had happened.

  By now, all the camp was watching the white man’s attempt to ride the big horse. The Apache people laughed heartily, the women chattering and pointing, the children giggling and scampering around. Pete stood up and brushed at the dust on his trousers, glowering. As soon as the horse took off he had realized he had been set up. The Apache were excellent horsemen and now the only way he could keep his self-respect was to get back up there in the saddle and ride it out, man against beast. He stopped to pick up his Stetson and jammed it back on his head, directing a knowing glance at the laughing Quantro. His hat back on, he approached the apparently unconcerned stallion with a purpose.

  Once again he mounted, then endured the rapid spell of volcanic eruptions from the powerful horse. Once again the horse won.

  He tried again.

  And again. But the obsession faded as the number of bruises he acquired rapidly beat the determination out of him. The horse was still winning.

  Finally, he stood up awkwardly and put his hat back on, his head hanging, eyes pointed towards the ground. The Apache had stopped laughing now, respecting the might and deviousness of the buckskin stallion. They had seen Pete ride before, and knew he could ride well. Not as well as an Apache, but pretty fair for a white man. The braves were shaking their heads in admiration for the horse, and they thought none the less of Pete for failing to ride him.

  After a moment of standing, allowing the wind that had been pounded out of him a chance to enter his lungs, he walked slowly back to where Quantro sat with White-Wing.

  “No wonder that goddamn horse ran away from you on the Devil’s Plateau. He ain’t even broke properly,” he grumbled.

  “He’s okay,” Quantro grinned. “Just he takes exception to people he don’t know getting up on his back. He just don’t trust ’em. I’m the only one’s ever rode him.”

  “He’s wild.” Pete was disgusted, but smiled wryly as he added, “But he’s one hell of a horse.”

  Quantro whistled and the buckskin immediately raised its head and trotted through the camp. The Apache moved out of the big horse’s way. He stood trembling above his master, then dipped his head and gently nuzzled Quantro’s neck with a snicker.

  “See what I mean,” Quantro said, hands spread wide, palms face up as though he didn’t understand it himself.

  White-Wing looked on in amazement, admiration for the white warrior evident on her face. Underneath, she knew the horse was aware of its master’s internal power, just the same as she was. It showed in the timbre of his soft voice, yet it was strong with the underlying current of absolute certainty.

  From his place a few yards away, Crawling-Snake saw White-Wing’s expression and his heart darkened.

  CHAPTER 7

  Whenever Pete was around, he would translate between Quantro and White-Wing. Slowly as his shoulder healed, Quantro began to pick up odd words of the mixture the Apaches spoke, partly pure Apache and partly bastardised Spanish. He would repeat the strange words slowly, contorting his tongue around the alien inflections, while White-Wing smiled and nodded encouragingly. Whenever he was hesitant, she would repeat the word and listen while he struggled to get it right. Each time he learnt a new one, they would talk and she would manipulate the conversation so he would have to insert the new word. As each was learned, she would introduce another and so on. Quantro returned the compliment by teaching her the English words. So their conversation became a peculiar hybrid of English, Spanish, and Apache.

  As the sun moved through its cycle of days, working towards a new moon, Quantro’s Apache vocabulary expanded to include almost everything in sight. Sometimes, when the other women and children were watching, he would feel foolish, like a child, when she pointed and pronounced difficult words very slowly, lingering over each consonant and syllable, so he could imitate them. Soon, they had to venture farther afield.

  He had regained his strength rapidly and after the first dizzy spell when he stood up, he was able to walk about. He removed the sling from his arm and flexed the limb with a grimace. The shoulder was stiff and delicate, but he began a series of limbering exercises to loosen it up. He would spend half an hour working on the shoulder, then buckle on his Colt and spend another half hour practicing with his gun hand. That was the one talent he could not afford to let go rusty. The boy had come looking for him, so he never knew, there could be others.

  White-Wing would sit, her face open, like a little girl, her white teeth shining in her bronzed face. Her small hands would be clasped together in her lap, and when the pistol appeared like lightning in his hand, she would cover her mouth in girlish surprise. When the bullet split the stick he had placed in a nearby crevice, she would clap her hands in glee
at his artistry.

  When he had spent his half hour on the Colt, he would fetch the beloved Winchester, knowing exercise with the rifle would help strengthen his bad shoulder. He would stand with his back to the target, the Winchester hanging loosely from his right hand. As he turned, the rifle would come up smoothly and he would lever a shell into the breech, squeezing the trigger almost before his body finished moving.

  Each time he hit the target dead centre.

  When his practicing was finished, he would saddle up the buckskin and an Indian pony for White-Wing then they would ride out along the mountain trails. Often they would just ride, allowing the horses to pick their own way among the rocks, while White-Wing would point out things, giving them their Apache name, and Quantro would respond with the name in English. If they saw game, he would put his gun skill to use. Sometimes he would shoot a brace of jack-rabbits, or a wild turkey, even a deer. On a bad day, perhaps it would just be an ornery old rattlesnake whose lair they had disturbed, but whatever he shot went into the pot. That was the Apache way, she taught him. Usen, The Great Spirit had furnished the earth with all manner of things to help the Apache live, but the Apache should never take more than he needed, and never kill for the sake of killing.

  She showed him the fields her people had painstakingly planted by hand. The crops were growing well, and their labor was being rewarded. They had acquired a small herd of cattle too, and a passable remuda of horses and ponies, enough to satisfy their needs. When the cattle started to breed, they would have beef enough to eat and more to trade. The herds were looked after by the young bucks. She explained this was to teach them patience for when they were old enough to take their turns as lookouts, guarding the passes and the narrow trails that led up to the hideout.

  She took him to the Shining Water too. He already knew where the creek lay for he visited it every morning to wash and shave. Above that place was where the women collected the water for their daily needs, but below the washing area, screened by pine trees, was a small waterfall that fed a rock basin. The cold water from the creek gathered, making a natural swimming hole roughly twenty feet across and four or five feet deep at the centre, shallower towards the edges. White-Wing explained that during the last two hours of the morning before the sun reached its zenith, the women went to bathe there, while the older women would take turns guarding the hole from inquisitive male eyes. Sorry was the brave who was caught spying when the women lashed into him with their tongues and sticks.