by Erin Johnson
Grace bit back a retort. Who did he think he was? For some reason, he seemed to have appointed himself as her savior. Although she knew she should feel grateful, his superior attitude annoyed her.
“Well, thank you for saving me again,” she said through clenched teeth, but the words sounded far from gracious.
Joe grinned at her. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I could help.” He gave her a mock-stern look. “And I hope you learned your lesson and won’t eat pokeberries again.”
“Anyone could have made that mistake,” Grace said.
“Not anyone with an ounce of sense. No one goes traveling in the desert without knowledge of the dangers.”
“My pa,” Grace’s voice shook as she answered him, “taught me about the dangers. It was one mistake.”
“No slur on your pa, but he didn’t teach you enough to survive alone out here. Knowing a few things about ranching life isn’t enough to keep you alive in these hills. And it will never keep you alive tracking down outlaws like Hale.”
What had she told him? How did he know what she intended to do? “What do you know of my plans?” Grace demanded.
“Enough to know that you’re plumb out of your skull. No one goes after criminals like Elijah Hale alone. And, even worse, unskilled.” Joe shook his head. “Leave justice to the law.”
“Why does everyone keep telling me to leave justice to others? First the preacher says to let God take care of it. Then Cheveyo says let . . . Usen do it. Now you, with the law!” Grace’s chest heaved, and she clenched her good fist. “God didn’t punish the Guiltless Gang. Why didn’t he . . . I don’t know, shoot lightning bolts from the sky? And how can I trust the law?” She spat the word. “Did anyone go after Hale? The sheriff back in Tombstone ignored me when I went to him for help.” Grace’s whole body shook with tremors of anger.
“I know,” Joe said gently. “It’s hard to watch criminals go unpunished.”
“You have no idea.”
“Actually, I do. And I know what it’s like to feel the way you do. To be filled with grief and . . . and anger so strong it overwhelms you.” Joe stared at the ground. “I couldn’t help overhearing you while you were feverish.”
Grace’s cheeks heated. She couldn’t meet his eyes. What had she said?
“I know about what happened to your family. And why you want to get revenge. But Cheveyo’s right. You must let it go.”
Grace’s jaw clenched. She was about to burst out that he had no right to tell her what to do, but the deep sadness in Joe’s eyes stopped her.
“I lost my family too,” he said softly. “My mother died when I was seven, so Pa and Uncle Willis decided we ought to come out West to homestead.” He had a tremor in his voice. “They never made it.”
Grace frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
Joe sighed. “We were on a stagecoach heading toward Tombstone when bandits charged out of the hills. They held us up and shot the driver. Pa jumped out of the coach and confronted them while Uncle Willis lowered me out the window on the other side and told me to run toward a patch of trees and hide. He promised they’d follow. But . . . I heard the shots.” A look of sickness crossed Joe’s face, and he gazed off into the distance. “I stayed there in the scrub, scared and shivering, until Cheveyo found me.”
Grace gasped. If he’d been a captive with the Indians all this time, there was little hope of escape.
Joe walked over to the wall and fingered a heavy ball of rawhide with a fringed buckskin handle that had a horse tail hanging from it.
“See this?” he demanded.
Grace choked out a small “yes,” hoping that the anger in his voice wasn’t directed at her.
“The sheriff claimed they found a war club like this at the scene.” Joe punched a fist into his palm, and his voice was tight. “That was a lie. But the Indians got blamed. I couldn’t identify their faces under those bandanas, because the only thing that showed were their eyes. Their cruel, mean eyes. But one thing I know for sure — they weren’t Indians.”
The pain in his voice brought tears to Grace’s eyes.
“It didn’t matter what I said to them though. The sheriff assembled a posse to get the —” Joe paused and then choked out the word. “‘— Apache’ who’d killed the stagecoach passengers.” He turned his back and stood for a few moments, clenching and unclenching his jaw like he was trying to fight back tears.
When his voice came again, it was thick. “They killed twenty-seven Indians that day. Most of them women and children. Twenty-seven innocent people died while the real killers went free. I got no so-called justice for my pa and uncle.” He exhaled hard. “Yet in spite of that, the Ndeh took me in.”
“Ndeh?”
Joe gestured toward the open doorway. “The Ndeh. You call them Apache, but they call themselves Ndeh. ‘The people.’”
“You mean you live with the Apache? You’re not a captive?”
He whirled on her, frowning. “Yes, I live with the Ndeh. They could have taken revenge for those deaths. Killed me to retaliate. Instead they adopted me. Treated me as if I was their own child. They taught me everything I know about survival, about life.” He looked Grace straight in the eye. “And forgiveness.”
Grace’s brain was whirling. Everyone knew that the Apache were lawless savages. Everyone she knew always spoke of them in hushed and fearful tones. Indians had attacked several ranches nearby; they were a constant threat. She couldn’t reconcile Joe’s story with what she knew of their cruelty.
Joe held out a hand. “For years I wanted to track down my family’s killers too. I was angry, like you.”
“I’m not angry —”
But Joe continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I kicked and fought those around me. Tried to keep them away. I vowed never to get close to anyone again.”
Had Joe been eavesdropping on her conversation with the preacher?
“Since then, I’ve watched others grieve. Raids have taken the lives of many in this band. And I do understand; anger helps you heal, it lets you know you’re alive. But if you don’t let it go, it poisons your soul.”
“Now you really are sounding like the preacher,” Grace scoffed.
“Then he’s wise. Living with the Ndeh, I learned to let that anger go.” Joe looked deep into Grace’s eyes. “Stay for a while. Heal. Learn our ways. There is much this tribe can teach you.”
Joe’s story and his pleading voice warmed a part of Grace’s heart she’d thought was frozen. But she would never be at peace if she accepted injustice.
“I can’t let those criminals go free. They could do the same thing to others. They have to be stopped. And since no one else will, I intend to do it.”
“What can one lone girl do against a gang of thieves and murderers?”
“I can find out where they’re hiding and tell the deputy. I’ve heard at least he’s honest.” Or I’ll take care of it myself if he’s not.
“What if they find you first?”
“It’s a chance I have to take.”
Joe shook his head. “That’s foolish.” He paused, raising an eyebrow like he had just thought of something. “If you stay here, the Ndeh can teach you how to stalk people so stealthily that they never know you’re there. You can learn to use our weapons. Guns are fine at a distance, but if you’re ambushed, you should know how to use a tomahawk, a knife, even a rock to defend yourself.” Joe gave her a level stare. “Perhaps you might even discover you don’t need revenge after all.”
Grace let out an exasperated sigh. “I can’t waste any more time. I may already be too late.”
Joe motioned to the gun lying beside her. “You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”
The gun? The Apaches hadn’t stolen her gun. Grace’s fingers closed gratefully around the cold metal on the ground beside her. She glared at Joe. “I bet I can shoot
as well as you.”
“Want to prove it?”
Grace struggled to her knees, ignoring the whirling in her head. “I don’t have time for contests. I need to get out of here.”
“You aren’t ready to go anywhere.”
She’d show him. Grace pushed herself to her feet, but she would have pitched forward onto her face if Joe hadn’t caught her. Still, she shook off his arm, setting off a shower of sparks in her brain. She stood for a few moments, willing the dizziness and nausea to subside. Then she took a few wobbly steps toward the opening. “Where’s . . . where’s Bullet?”
“Your horse? He’s being cared for. He was in worse shape than you. Cheveyo has done wonders, but that horse won’t be ready to ride for weeks, maybe longer — wait . . . hey!”
Grace ignored him, lurching through the doorway of the hut.
CHAPTER 8
Joe caught up to Grace, his brow creased with concern. “Hold up! I told you, both you and your horse need time to heal.”
“I can’t wait. I have to —” Grace stopped as she stepped out into the dazzling sunshine. She had to squint until her eyes adjusted to the brightness. When she opened them, all around her she saw women hard at work — tanning hides, slicing strips of meat from deer carcasses and draping them on drying racks over fires, pounding grain with stone mortars and pestles larger than the one the shaman used. Many of the women had cradleboards strapped to their backs, with babies peeking out from beneath semicircular buckskin hoods decorated with fringe and beadwork.
One of them could have been Zeke. Grace stood still and drew in a breath, trying to suck back the sob that threatened.
Children laughed and played. Some chased hoops with sticks, while dogs barked and ran after them. Others went racing past on horseback. They could have been Daniel and Abby. Women stirring pots over the fire reminded Grace of Ma hunched over the hearth . . . Grace’s heart clenched into a tight knot.
Families everywhere. And she was alone. Her loneliness merged with the ache that spread through her whole body.
It wasn’t fair.
Her whole family had been taken from her. She would never again gather vegetables for supper or pick berries for her family the way these girls were doing. She would never again sit down to a meal with her brothers and sister, or listen to Pa read at night, his deep voice soothing her to sleep.
She would never again have anyone to touch or hold or care for her.
The Guiltless Gang had stolen everything from her.
Grace could feel herself growing shakier as she stood watching the activity swirling around her. It was partly from her heartsickness, but her body was very weak. Still, determined not to prove Joe right, she shuffled one foot in front of the other, trying to rid herself of the quaking feeling.
Joe followed slowly at her side and cocked an eyebrow. “Not ready for this, are you?”
“I am so.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You can barely lift your feet. You’re slower than a slug climbing a water jar.”
Grace gritted her teeth. She would show him. She might not have the stamina to walk as fast as he could, but she’d be darned if she let him show her up in a shooting contest. And she wouldn’t let him know she was still too weak to move any faster. “I’m . . . I’m taking it all in. I’ve never seen Apaches close up.”
“Ndeh,” Joe corrected. “Do you know what Apache means? It means ‘enemy.’ It’s an insult. In fact, if you want to be more specific, these are the Chiricahua people or the Chihuicahui. To the whites, all the so-called ‘Apache’ are the same. But every band, every clan is different.”
Grace didn’t really feel like listening to a lecture from Joe, but at least it kept her mind off the pain of seeing Zeke in each papoose she passed. Or wondering if Daniel would win among the young boys racing horses in the open field, their hair streaming behind them.
The women wore an odd mix of clothing. Some dressed in traditional buckskin poncho-like tops with skirts tied at the waist, but others looked more like Mexican women, with tiered cotton skirts and puff-sleeved white blouses. Most wore multiple strands of jewelry around their necks.
Grace wasn’t the only one gawking. A few children had spotted her, and they dropped their hoops or dismounted their horses, running over and crowding around her. They stared at her curiously, and some of the bolder ones reached up and touched her blond braids with wonder in their eyes. Others poked at Grace’s skin, giggling when they touched its paleness and then looking down at their own brown skin. They chattered to each other excitedly, though some of the shyer children stayed in the background, gawking. Grace felt uncomfortable being the center of attention, but she was grateful for the chance to stop and catch her breath.
Joe smiled. “They’re fascinated by how blond your hair is and how pale your skin is.”
“I’m not pale,” Grace protested. Ma had always despaired of Grace’s skin, which had tanned to a golden brown from all the time she spent in the sun.
“Compared to me you are,” Joe said with a grin, his teeth showing white in the midst of his tanned face.
When Grace glanced at the mahogany-colored hands stroking her arms and the glossy black hair of everyone around her, she realized how strange she must appear to these children.
Joe barked something in a guttural tone, and all but the boldest children backed away.
“What did you say?”
“I told them you were sick and needed to be left alone.” He squatted down, said a string of strange words to the remaining children, and pointed toward the women working. The children finally let go of Grace’s arm and raced toward the women.
Joe chuckled. “I reminded them that their mothers needed help. I figured you wouldn’t want an audience witnessing your humiliation in our shooting contest.”
“You . . . you . . .” Grace sputtered, trying to find the words to put him in his place. She stalked ahead, ignoring her dizziness and wobbly legs. She’d show him — she was a good shot. Pa had taught her. She had killed vermin and rattlesnakes; she’d be able to hit his stupid targets.
When they were far enough away from the village, Joe stopped. “We can shoot here without disturbing anyone.”
“You go first.” Grace was struggling to stay upright now. The walk had drained most of her strength. She needed a few minutes to stop the trembling in her legs and to clear her head, which felt wrapped in fog.
“You sure?” The corners of Joe’s lips quirked again. “Shouldn’t it be ladies first?”
Grace was so tired she could hardly mumble. “I . . . I’ll wait.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Joe waited for her nod, which set the pounding in her brain off harder than the warriors’ drums. “I’ll hit that first knothole. You can aim for the second one.” He pointed to a distant cottonwood branch and then lined up his shot.
Grace jumped at the sharp report and nearly fell. She staggered back a few steps, trying to gain a firmer footing.
The target split in two. He’d hit dead center.
If he could do it, so could she. She had to do this to prove to Joe that she wasn’t a weakling, that she could take care of herself, that she was ready to get out of there.
Her arms were so weak and shaky she could barely lift the gun, let alone aim. She tried to focus her cloudy senses and took a deep breath, narrowing her eyes. But the target swayed, grew fuzzy around the edges. Stay still, she begged. Let me do this. Prove to Joe I can shoot. She aimed at what she thought was the center of the wavering knothole. Hoping she had it right, she squeezed the trigger. The impact traveled up her arm and knocked her backward, and the report of the gun made Grace’s teeth ache.
She would have tumbled to the ground if Joe hadn’t caught her. His arms closed around her, keeping her upright. Grace wanted to shake him off, but dizziness closed in. Her grip on the gun loosened, and it almost slid fr
om her grasp. Her arms felt boneless, and she felt her body slide back against Joe’s cradling arms. She willed herself to stand, finally breaking free and tottering away a few steps.
In the distance the target mocked her. She had missed.
She shook off the hand Joe slid under her elbow to steady her again, willing the strange sensations to go away. The weakness and dizziness was making her mind whirl. After all her bragging, she had humiliated herself. She hadn’t even nicked the target.
Joe looked at her with concern but could clearly see the determined clench in her jaw. “Uh, that shot went wild. Want to try again?” He looked like he was hoping she would say no — like he was regretting even letting her try this challenge.
Grace’s heart sank. She didn’t want his pity, but she knew she wouldn’t do any better with a second shot. Her head was reeling, and her arm still shook from the first shot. The gun felt like it weighed so much she could hardly lift it, let alone steady it.
Grudgingly, she shook her head, setting sparks shooting behind her eyes. But she still couldn’t admit Joe was right. “I . . . I can’t afford to waste the bullets. I may need them for protection.” Or to put through the hearts of my family’s murderers.
“I can ride into town and get more bullets if you run out.”
“No, no. I can’t pay you, and I owe you too much already.” She hadn’t forgotten the pouch of silver he had thrown to her.
“You don’t owe me anything.” Joe caught her gaze and held it. “Anyone with common decency would have done the same.”
“But all that silver . . . I’ll pay you back. I promise,” she said.
“Would you feel you owed me if I’d given you a load of firewood?”
“Firewood? No.”
“So look around. The hills are filled with silver. Step into any stream, and you’ll find nuggets.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It is. It’s easier than finding kindling in the desert. Why do you think all the prospectors have turned up, moved in, forcing the Ndeh from their homelands?” His tone turned savage. “Why do you think that gang tried to run your family off your ranch?”
