Lord Apache

by Robert J. Steelman

  "It isn't exactly a castle," Jack said, "but I know what you mean."

  "They're proud," Uncle Roscoe went on, "and resourceful. They lived off this dry land for thousands of years. They make bread from mesquite beans, and beer called 'tiswin' from the mescal plant. They bake mescal roots in a pit in the ground, too. It tastes like molasses candy; they got a sweet tooth, like anybody. They eat the fruit of the nopal cactus—some folks calls it 'Indian fig.' Their lingo is all gobbles and gargles, but there's a pleasant sound to it."

  Jack looked to the greening fields where Charlie hoed weeds. "Do the Papagos speak the same language as the Apaches?"

  "Purty close," Uncle Roscoe said. "At least, they can make each other out."

  "Charlie calls me 'Ostin.' What does that mean?"

  Uncle Roscoe grinned a toothless grin. "'Ostin' is Apache talk for 'Lord.' Anything they respect or fear they call 'Ostin'—the bear, snakes, lightning. 'Lord Bear,' 'Lord Snake,' 'Lord Lightning.'"

  Jack helped him light his pipe. The old prospector lay back in the chair, staring at the great bulk of the Mazatzals, remembering a long time ago when he lived with the Indians.

  "They don't never call themselves 'Apache.' That's just a Mexican word that means 'enemy.' Their name for theirselves is Tinneh. It means 'The Men'—and that's what they are: men, real men." He watched a circle of blue-gray smoke drift in the wind. "Missionaries never had any effect on 'em. The Apaches got their own religion, and stick by it—all kinds of gewgaws and ceremonies. Sacred cords, sacred shirts, medicine arrows and lances, pieces of quartz and petrified wood. What means most is hoddentin. That's cornmeal, usual dyed red or blue, they hang in a bag around their necks. Kind of a charm, to protect 'em in battle."

  Now Jack understood the little sack filled with blue grains he had taken from the neck of the Apache killed in the first fight at the Agua Fria, the sack he later hung on the broken lance of the dead man.

  "The men folk," Uncle Roscoe went on, "are good sewers, do all the sewing for the family. But an Apache is scared to death of his mother-in-law." He chuckled. "He won't talk to her or face her if he can help it. I've seen 'em walk a mile out of their way just to sashay around a mother-in-law!"

  Cornelia Newton-Barrett's mother, Jack remembered, was also somewhat of an ogress.

  "They love to play cards, gamble, run footraces. Mostly they're happy. But when someone dies they set the whole village afire— they live mostly in brush huts—and move away. They don't want to be reminded."

  Jack looked toward the graves, amulets swinging in the wind. He had thought of the Apaches as murderous beasts; certainly they had tried to kill him. It was unsettling to view them as human beings; family men, people who doted on mescal candy and feared a mother-in-law and were in their own way religious.

  "They eat horses, too," Jack was reminded, and looked where old Bonyparts grazed, along with a lame ox and some horses left at the Rancho Terco station under the terms of his recent agreement with Tully and Ochoa. There was a spring wagon, also, that was being towed to Prescott when an axle broke. Eggleston, at a crude forge, was making repairs.

  "Horses and mules is a special treat," Uncle Roscoe agreed. "They eat sunflower seeds, too, and wild potatoes and berries and rabbits and whatever else comes to hand. They grow a little corn, when folks leaves 'em alone. But now most of 'em has been herded onto the reservations. The rest is being chased from pillar to post. No, times are a-changing for them, 1 guess—" For a moment the old man seemed to doze, then opened his rheumy eyes. "And for the rest of us old geezers, too, like me and Ike Coogan."

  Times were changing the fastest along the Agua Fria. Rancho Terco was a natural site for a stage stop; midway between Phoenix and the new capital, it began to grow like the tent towns in the gold country of California twenty-five years earlier. Prescott furnished fresh vegetables, lumber, beef cattle, and excellent beer from a new brewery. Phoenix supplied wheat, barley, pumpkins, sweet potatoes, mutton, and wool. It was also an important distribution point where goods and supplies unloaded from the steamers of the Colorado Steam Navigation Company at Yuma could be shipped by wagon to Florence, Tucson, Prescott, and the many mining camps and Army posts.

  The merchants of the Territory—Fish and Collingwood, Lord and Williams, Leopoldo Carrillo, Zeckendorf, Tully and Ochoa— maintained fleets of freight wagons that weekly plied the rutted roads with bolts of gingham, lard and sides of bacon, saddles from St. Louis, kegs of bourbon, rum, and brandy, cartridges for the Army, patent medicines. Sometimes the cargo even included barrels of oysters and clams shipped all the way from San Francisco in ice renewed at the new ice-making factory in Yuma. Temporarily balked by the Apache rebellion, the economy now boomed again. But still Agustín sat stubbornly atop the Mazatzals, a brooding threat the Army could not eradicate. From time to time he reminded the Territory of his presence by quick, stinging raids along the river, Jack Drumm's Union Jack carried aloft as a totem.

  Though Jack had not yet heard from his brother Andrew, enough money was coming in to keep Rancho Terco viable. Cora, beans, and winter melons flourished under Charlie's care; Eggleston discovered pan-size fish in the river; Uncle Roscoe, recovering from his stroke, found a bed of wild potatoes. "Dee-lishus!" he cackled. "All you got to do is fry 'em, peel and all, with a little wild onion!" Roscoe found the wild onions, also, and they feasted on fresh new potatoes. But the mealy taste made Jack think of Clarendon Hall. He and Andrew used to filch potatoes from the kitchen to roast at their secret hiding place in the depths of the forest behind the house. Unwillingly, he found himself thinking also of Cornelia Newton-Barrett. What must she think of him? When last he wrote Andrew he had neglected even to mention Cornelia in his letter, to speak of his intention toward her, his anticipation of seeing her soon. Guilty, he found a stub of candle and started to write:

  I think of you so often and of the times we were together.

  He struck that out; it was not true. Really, he had not thought of Cornelia for a long time. Starting again, he wrote:

  Do you remember the time we were alone together in the great hall, sitting by the fire? The hour was well after midnight, and the house very still. You—

  The pen, corroded from disuse, scratched into the paper and blotted. He tore up the letter and started another, but found himself staring moodily into the flame of the candle. Cornelia had been in nightclothes; a filmy gown that shimmered in the firelight lay lightly on her thigh yet molded itself silkily to the rounding curve of flesh. Cornelia's hair was long and blond, falling around her shoulders in cascading ringlets that—that—

  Eyes half closed, he frowned. Cornelia's hair was blond, certainly, but in his vision something had changed. He narrowed his eyes further, insistent on retaining the misty image. This woman's hair was red, a titian red that caught the flames, made a halo around her pale face with its blue eyes. Blue eyes? Cornelia's eyes were brown, a melting brown like those of a good setter, but the eyes in his dream were blue—remarkable cerulean blue, soft lashes overarched by delicate brows.

  "Phoebe!" he blurted. "Phoebe Larkin!"

  Wadding up the half-finished letter, he threw it angrily from him. How dare she? Phoebe, he meant—not Cornelia. Reaching for the pen, he tried another start. That did not work out either.

  Ashamed and repentant, he stalked out and sat for a long time in the moonlight, smoking one of Fish and Collingwood's "stogies," as they were called—five cents apiece, and hardly of Cuban quality. His thoughts were confused. Relieved of the glow from the treacherous candle, his eyes finally became accustomed to the dark. In the gloaming he could just make out the great purple bulk of the Mazatzals. The wound on his cheek itched, and he scratched it gently. Agustín was up there, in the Mazatzals. From the corner of his eye he saw a spark of light on the mountain; it glimmered briefly, then disappeared. Agustín? An Apache campfire? He did not know. But somewhere, sometime, he and Agustín would meet again; he knew it in his bones, in his being, in the wound on his cheek and the newer one i
n his shoulder.

  Early one morning, leaving the defense of the ranch to Eggleston, Uncle Roscoe, and the Papago, Jack Drumm hitched Bonyparts to the repaired spring wagon and drove to Prescott for supplies. Not only for supplies was the trip necessary, but he remembered Jake the teamster's comment about the land along the river as potentially valuable property. He did not know the procedures involved but intended to visit the Land Office and make inquiry.

  It was a December day, breezy, the desert wind soft and warm. Wrens trilled in the cactus, a few of the ocotillo retained red-tipped branches from bloom of the previous summer, and the sky teemed with snowy caravels of cloud. Jack had a good baritone voice. He began to sing an old ballad he remembered from his father. It was called "The Girdle"; a hymn to a lady's belt. Lord Fifield, in his early days, had been somewhat of a rover. Basking in the sunshine while Bonyparts plodded ahead toward distant Prescott, Jack recalled the final words:

  A narrow compass, and yet there dwelt All that's good and all that's fair. Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!

  Feeling content, he lolled on the seat. For the first time in a long while he had a feeling of satisfaction, of accomplishment. In that assurance he allowed his thoughts to wander. Phoebe Larkin's waist had a narrow compass, indeed. Her hips were full and rich, nipped at the waist by a circumference that must be no more than twenty-odd inches. Give me what this ribbon bound, take all the rest the sun goes round! A bit racy, that! Well, he thought loyally, Cornelia Newton-Barrett had a small waist also. He could not imagine Cornelia swinging a mattock, or for that matter shooting anyone, even greatly provoked. Cornelia was a lady of quality and breeding, which Phoebe Larkin—or Buckner—was not.

  Lost in thought, suddenly he blinked. On a ridge paralleling the road a light flashed. An Apache mirror? Were they watching him, signaling his presence, a raiding party out for guns and ammunition, which they must desperately need? Reins in one hand, he picked up the needle-gun in the other and made sure it was loaded. The contentment fled.

  "Get along, mule!" he barked, slapping the reins over the animal's broad sweating back, festooned with gnats and flies. Bonyparts swiveled his ears and broke into a shambling trot while Jack scanned the ridge. Prescott must be at least another twenty miles distant; he would be lucky to arrive by noon. Beginning to feel vulnerable, he wished traffic on the road were more frequent. There was something macabre in thoughts of death on a fine day. But Weaver's Ranch had probably dozed in the sun when the Apaches attacked.

  Prescott was over six thousand feet in altitude, much above the playa. The road climbed steadily, passing through barrancas and canyons. His mouth felt dry and cottony. Sweat filmed his brow and dampened his grasp on the reins. An Apache might lurk beneath each saguaro, a painted warrior behind every boulder, a bandy-legged assassin in every wash. He felt cold, which might have been expected with the increase in altitude, but he suspected that part of it was due to fear. When he saw the rambling outbuildings of Fort Whipple and heard the sound of a distant bugle playing mess call he was relieved.

  As a child Jack had visited his father in the state of New York, near Albany, where Lord Fifield held a consular post. Prescott was not only picturesque in location and dainty in appearance, but after the sprawling Latin character of Phoenix and Yuma it seemed a village transplanted bodily from the Mohawk Valley of New York State. Houses were built in American style, with little of the adobe and brush common to Phoenix. The doors were American doors, fastened with American bolts and locks, opened by American knobs instead of being closed by a heavy cottonwood log falling against them. The houses of sawn lumber were neatly painted and surrounded with paling fences. A light snow lay on the ground; fat milk cows watched him as he drove into town, wheels of the spring wagon crunching in the icy ruts.

  Tying up the wagon, he balanced the needle-gun under his arm and went to look for Sam Valentine. In one respect, walking through the bustle and confusion of the midday throngs, Prescott was similar to Phoenix. The gambling saloons were in full swing; the game "went" and the voice of the dealer was heard in the land. Tobacco smoke ascended from cigarillos, pipes, and cigars, filling the rooms with the foulest of odors. Even in midday the lamps were lit. High above the hum of conversation and the click of chips sounded the cry: "Make yer little bets, gents, make yer little bets! All's set, the game's made, the ball's a-rolling!"

  After inquiry, Jack found Sam Valentine sitting in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel, reading the latest copy of the Daily Miner.

  "Sit down!" Valentine invited. "What brings you to the capital?" He gestured toward the bar for two whiskeys.

  Jack told him.

  "Rancho Terco still thriving?"

  "We make do," Jack said modestly, laying aside his sombrero. He told the legislator his needs, and Valentine recommended stores where quality goods might be purchased.

  "And cornmeal," Jack added. Eggleston had developed a passion for tortillas; Jack liked them too, with morning eggs.

  "Mexican's got a mill out on the Bear Spring Road," Valentine said. "Best damned meal you can buy! Name's Manuel Peralta. Tell him I sent you and he may knock a few pennies off the bill. We don't have too many Mexicans up here—they prefer the heat in the valley—but they're good citizens." He lit a long stogie, offered one to Jack Drumm. "To tell the truth, I never thought I'd see you again! Figured by now you'd have cashed in your chips."

  Drumm looked puzzled; Sam Valentine laughed.

  "Just an expression! Means I thought you'd have lit a shuck—left the game—gone back to England." He drew deep on the slender cigar.

  "No," Jack said, "I'm staying—at least until I'm ready to leave."

  "How long will that be?"

  Jack shrugged a Mexican shrug.

  "Listen," Valentine said. He leaned forward, tapping Jack on the knee. "Have you ever thought of becoming an American citizen?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  Jack shrugged. "I'm an Englishman, Mr. Valentine. All that is left of my family is in Hampshire. My brother is managing the estate, and is not doing too well—he needs help. Anyway, my roots are deep in Hampshire. I must admit your Arizona is a fascinating place, especially in the winter when Hampshire is like a great meat locker. But I am only a visitor here."

  "Shame!" Valentine said. "A great shame! We need people like you in the Territory, especially in the Legislature. There are problems, problems that take brains like yours, education like yours, stick-to-itiveness like yours, Drumm."

  The stogie was vile. Jack tried hard to hide his distaste with a sip of the whiskey. It, too, was raw and harsh.

  "I appreciate your compliment, Mr. Valentine," he said.

  "Well, think about it!" Valentine urged. "This is a land of great opportunity! We're not stuck in the mud like your old England—no offense meant, of course! But the Territory's growing! Do you know what I heard only yesterday?"

  "No, sir."

  "Already the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad is planning a branch line into Prescott from the main route at Bear Spring! Once that happens, the sky's the limit! Land values will shoot up—a smart man can make a stake in a few months!"

  "I'll certainly think about it," Jack promised, and did not intend to. "Ah—by the way," he went on, "do you know a man named Larkin? A Mr. Buell Larkin, here in Prescott?"

  The legislator furrowed his brow, stroked his beard. "Larkin? Don't know as I do." He called to the bartender, busy polishing glasses behind a mahogany bar. "Pete, you know a man hereabouts named Larkin?"

  Pete pursed his lips, stared long and hard at the glass he was shining. "Larkin? Sure—old Buell Larkin! He was from somewhere back in the States—Kentucky, I think."

  "West Virginia," Jack suggested.

  "Pocahontas County, he told me," Pete remembered. "Wherever that is!"

  "Where is Larkin now?"

  "Under six feet of sand and gravel! Someone jumped his claim up in Hardscrabble Canyon—shot the old man in a disagreement
."

  "How long ago was that?" Jack asked.

  Pete shrugged. "Two years ago. Mebbe three. Time passes—I don't strictly remember."

  So Phoebe Larkin and Mrs. Glore had not found refuge with her uncle Buell! Getting to his feet and thanking Sam Valentine, Jack went out into the street. A light snow was falling. He pulled the poncho tighter about him. Though it was only teatime, lamps were turned on against the early dark; each cast a ring of golden light in the misty downfall.

  He stepped aside to avoid a dray wagon hauling kegs of beer. What had happened to them—Phoebe and Mrs. Glore? Had they managed to elude Meech? Were they still fleeing? Or—

  After he had completed his other purchases and filled out the necessary papers with the clerk of the Legislature, he drove out on the Bear Spring Road to look for Manuel Peralta's mill. Here was atmosphere reminiscent of Phoenix, picturesque and exotic in the gentle rain of snow: a few adobe buildings, log lean-tos, the gentle chords of a guitar muffled by the downfall. Tall conical hats like his own, women wrapped in rebozos, the liquid lilt of Spanish. He sniffed appreciatively; the winter air was laced with the smell of chiles, the slap-slap of female hands making tortillas, the cries of children playing games like el charro and escondate—hide and seek.

  Manuel Peralta was a talkative man with a fierce brushy mustache. "I hear of you," he said, shaking hands with Jack. "I hear a lot about you, Señor Drumm! You fight the Apaches on the Agua Fria, eh?"

  "Yes," Jack admitted. "We try to prevail against them."

  Peralta spat through a gap between his teeth. A mouse scurried away from a torn sack of meal.

  "I have my own place, once, down on the Santa Cruz, near Cojeta—raise melons and grapes and vegetables to sell in Tucson. But the damned Apaches drive me out!" The miller wiped his dusty face with a sleeve. "Kill my wife and two niños! That's why I come to here, to get away from the Apaches." He gestured toward the kitchen, a lean-to huddling against the mill. "I got me a new wife now, a young one, and more niños. But I miss Conception and the two babies."