Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  “Do the sheep belong to you?”

  The smile on his face faded. He lowered his gaze and scuffed the worn toe of his boot along the ground. She took that as a “No.”

  “I just bought them from Major Caldwell. What will you do now? Do you have anyplace to go?”

  Distress covered the boy’s face and tears filled his eyes.

  His reaction upset her. He looked lovingly out over the sheep for a moment, then took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he turned to walk away, she saw moisture on his cheeks.

  Daniella reacted without thought. “Simon, wait.” She reached out and touched his arm. “Would you like to go with us and take care of the sheep for me?”

  The big giant turned back toward her with a look of cautious hope on his face. “Really?”

  He hadn’t spoken the word aloud, but Daniella heard it, just the same. “Really.” She nodded vigorously.

  Simon looked at her with gratitude shining in his eyes, as though she’d just given him the world. Daniella had the uncomfortable feeling she’d just gained a willing slave.

  She escorted him to the store and introduced him to Tucker.

  The old man looked skeptically at the size of the young giant, then added enough provisions to accommodate two extra people.

  Tucker saw to the loading of the wagon and made certain everything was secure. Simon and his dog herded the sheep and mules out of the corral, and Daniella and the vaqueros followed with the cattle. She felt Lieutenant Lord’s malevolent stare boring into the back of her head. She resisted the urge to turn around and look at him.

  She wanted nothing more than to get out of this place. She wanted no more of these soldiers, Lt. Lord in particular. There was still daylight left, and she didn’t intend to waste a bit of it. She and her party headed back north, the way they’d come, then swung slightly west toward their new home.

  Daniella felt good. She had two dozen head of cattle, supplies to last for months, and an armed escort who, since the incident at noon with the Apaches, now regarded her with something approaching awe. She’d escaped the probing questions and thinly veiled accusations of Lieutenant Lord. And she had her sheep. And Simon.

  A roadrunner sprinted alongside the wagon for several yards before it darted back into the brush.

  Daniella smiled. Things didn’t look half bad.

  “I guess you know, girlie,” Tucker said a moment later, “your old man’s gonna have a fit when he finds out you charged all this stuff to him—especially them damn sheep.”

  Her good mood slipped a notch. “He sure is,” she said bitterly. “But he’ll probably consider it a small price to pay to be rid of me.”

  Chapter Five

  When they stopped to camp that night, Daniella saw to her horse, but let the vaqueros handle the cattle and the cooking. Simon and his dog took care of the sheep. She kept to herself at the edge of camp. After a while, Tucker brought her a plate of beans and cup of coffee and sat down beside her.

  “You doin’ all right, girlie?”

  She gave him a little half-smile. “I’ll manage.” She took a sip of coffee and asked, “How do you feel about farming and ranching for a living?”

  “Reckon I can stand it awhile.”

  Daniella laughed. “You don’t have to, you know. I want you to stay with me, but I don’t want you to feel you have to. I’ll manage if you want to go off on your own.”

  “Now just where is it you think I might wanna be goin’?”

  “I don’t know. Prospecting, maybe? That’s what you were doing before the Apaches captured you, wasn’t it?”

  He took a swallow of coffee then chuckled. “I may be old, girlie, but I ain’t no fool. If you don’t mind my company, I’ll just stick with you. Thataway I can keep my scalp. You’re my protection, whether you realize it or not.”

  “Apaches don’t take scalps. At least, not usually.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t aim for mine to be one of the few.”

  “Then you think they won’t bother us? Today wasn’t just a freak thing?”

  “They won’t bother you. If I’m with you, then they probably won’t bother me either. That’s the way I see it. Besides, I’m gittin’ too old to be traipsin’ around ascratchin’ rocks.”

  “Scratching rocks?”

  “Yeah—that’s what them ‘Pachees say. Rock scratcher. That’s a prospector.”

  They shared a companionable silence, and Daniella sat staring into the fire several feet away. What Tucker said about the Apaches not bothering her was probably true, especially if today was any indication. She hadn’t known those warriors, but they had recognized her.

  The Apaches had explained to her the first morning after her capture, after a night of horrifying abuse and brutality, that sometime during the night Yúúsń, the Great Spirit, had visited her. That’s how she got the streak in her hair, according the their shaman, Dee-O-Det. He said Yúúsń honored her for her bravery and courage, and her fierce determination to live.

  During the next few weeks, the Apaches treated her like a long lost daughter, with affection and respect, whether she wanted it or not. There’d even been a formal ceremony making her Cochise’s adopted daughter.

  It had been hard for her to reconcile those warm, generous people with the ones who’d tortured and beaten her that first night, but they were the same people. At least, they were from the same band of Chiricahua. She wondered what her fate would have been if Cochise had been in camp when her captors first brought her in. Maybe her captors wouldn’t have done what they did. But what if he hadn’t come at all, she thought with a shudder.

  Daniella forced the thoughts away and took a last sip of coffee as she listened to the howling of a nearby coyote. What-if’s were a waste of time. Nothing could change what happened to her that night.

  The coyote howled again. The night was full of sounds. Frogs set up a chorus that rose and fell, sometimes soft, sometimes deafening. Cattle lowed. The sheep were quiet, but the horses stomped and snorted occasionally, and an owl hooted. A moment later its mate answered. From far off in the distance came the scream of a mountain lion. Daniella shuddered, hoping the cat stayed away.

  The dancing flames of Pecos’s cook fire flared before her eyes, flickering, rearranging themselves, shifting, changing, leaping, until a face formed, the face of the golden-haired man, and suddenly she knew he wasn’t a phantom. He was real. He might be only an apparition in the flames here and now, but somehow, somewhere, this man existed. She could see his lips moving, but couldn’t hear the words. All she knew was he was suffering. His misery was so real she could feel it.

  His coffee-colored eyes were full of pain. One cheek was swollen with an angry looking wound. Strong white teeth clenched tight in frustration, and deep furrows lined his brow. Once more she had a strong desire to reach out and smooth those lines away. She longed to comfort him in some way. He looked directly into her eyes, and something deep inside her moved.

  A gust of wind shifted the face, blew it away, leaving nothing but the dancing flames. She blinked her eyes and shook her head. Her breath came in short gasps. Perspiration covered her face in spite of the night’s coolness.

  Beside her, Tucker leaned forward and watched her keenly. “What’s wrong, girlie? What do ya see?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I only know he’s real, and he’s alive.”

  “Who’s alive?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve seen him before. Twice.”

  “And?”

  She shuddered at the memory. “The first time was just like this. I was staring into the fire, and there he was…right there in the flames.” She stared at the fire, mesmerized by the orange tongues dancing with the sparks and shadows.

  “He was on the stage,” she continued, her voice almost a whisper as she recalled the scene. “His son was with him. They were attacked. A warrior dragged the boy away and shot the man. It looked like… She had to swallow before going on. “Like half his face was
blown away.”

  “You saw all that while lookin’ at a campfire?”

  Daniella nodded again, her eyes still glued to the flames.

  “Then what happened?”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I…I blinked, and he disappeared. There was nothing left but the fire. When I looked up, Dee-O-Det was there.”

  “Heh!” Tucker twisted at the waist and spat into the bushes. “Bet that old buzzard had plenty to say about it.”

  She shook her head, not raising her eyes. “He didn’t say a word. Just looked at me. For a long time. Then he nodded, almost like he was pleased, and left.” She threw her head back and took a deep breath as she looked at the stars. “It happened again the first night at Papa’s. Am I going crazy, Tucker?”

  “No, girlie, I don’t think you’re going crazy. But I’m beginning to think maybe them ‘Pachees was right—maybe their Great Spirit did visit ya.”

  With that, Tucker spread his bedroll out a few feet away and lay down. A few short minutes later, his soft snores joined the other night sounds.

  Daniella was too shaken to sleep. Where did her visions come from? Why did she feel some sort of connection with the man and his son? Where was the boy now? The questions buzzed around in her head until the sky lightened. Dawn came, but no answers.

  They crested the ridge forming the southwest boundary of Daniella’s new property just before sunset the next day. The valley ran east and west, with a small stream running from the high, east end, down the center of the valley. The dying rays of the sun reflected off the small adobe ranch house at the high end, making it glow in welcome for its new occupants. The land sloped gently down from the house to the small stream. The whole valley, a half-mile wide and just under a mile long, was ringed on all sides by the rugged foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains.

  “El Valle de Esperanza,” she whispered. The Valley of Hope. It was a peaceful valley, with lush native grass, a few cottonwoods and cedars along the stream, an oak or two, some juniper and mesquite, and the peach trees her uncle had planted years ago. An industrious woodpecker worked somewhere nearby, tapping away at a tree. Clumps of ocotillo, Mexican gold poppies, and yellow brittle-brush, sage, and greasewood grew randomly across the overgrown pastures. And scattered everywhere, a full compliment of yuccas and cacti: prickly pear, barrel cactus, chollas of all sizes.

  A feeling of calm settled over Daniella. The land seemed to welcome her, reaching out to protect her from pain. She was going to be happy here. After three years in Boston, even the cactus looked friendly.

  “Smoke.”

  “What?” Daniella asked, turning to Tucker.

  “I smell smoke.”

  Daniella sniffed the wind. At first there was nothing, then came a hint of burning mesquite. Alarmed, she stood in her stirrups and scanned the valley again. “Damn,” she muttered. There it was, a thin trail of smoke coming from the chimney. Her chimney. She narrowed her eyes. “Someone’s in my house. Tomás, Pecos, come with me.”

  She kicked Blaze into a gallop and thundered up the valley toward the little adobe house. Her house. Her house with a stranger in it. The hat flew off her head and she ignored it. She reached beneath her right thigh and slid the Spencer from its scabbard. No squatter was taking over her land.

  The noise of their approach finally alerted whoever was in the house, for as she and the two vaqueros skidded to a halt, the front door flew open. A big, barrel-chested man stepped out.

  He ran a huge hand through his shaggy red hair, then scratched at his equally shaggy, equally red beard. “Howdy.” His grin revealed yellowed front teeth. The bottom half of one had been chipped off. “Welcome. I just put on the coffee.”

  “Who are you?” Daniella demanded, the Spencer resting across her thighs.

  “Wow! Ain’t you a looker. Name’s Crane, ma’am. Billy Joe Crane. Step down and sit a spell.”

  “What are you doing on this land?”

  Crane’s eyes narrowed. “Well, now, don’t rightly see’s how that’s any of your business, but I happen to live here. Fact is, I’ve lived here for years.”

  “Is that so?” Daniella leaned down against the saddle horn and glared at him. “For years? My, my. That’s a little confusing, since this was my uncle’s ranch until six months ago. Now it’s mine. You’re trespassing, Mr. Crane. We both know it.”

  “Jist who the hell do you think you are, missy?” Crane demanded, waving his beefy arms in the air. “You cain’t go callin’ a fella a trespasser and git away with it. I ask ya, jist who the hell do you think you are?”

  Daniella calmly lifted the Spencer and aimed it at his chest. “I’m the one who’s running you off my land. Get out. Now.”

  The man stood there, his thumbs hooked through over-strained suspenders, and glared at her.

  “I said now, Mr. Crane,” Daniella added softly.

  She never knew if it was her tone of voice, the Spencer, or the two armed, mean-looking vaqueros at her side, but Crane muttered a curse and stepped back through the door. She half expected him to come out shooting, or not come out at all. But a moment later he appeared with bulging saddlebags thrown over his massive shoulder.

  She motioned for Tomás and Pecos to follow him to the corral, while she dismounted and went in the house. A sneer of disgust curled her lips. It was a pig sty. Dirt and leaves covered the floor and most of the furniture. The fireplace was filled with ashes and Lord-only-knew what else. Dried bits of food littered the table, some looking like they’d been stuck there for years. The whole place smelled like something she’d rather not identify. It would take days to clean it up.

  By the time she walked back outside, Crane had saddled his horse and was trying to get his ladened pack mule to follow him out of the corral. The animal refused to budge. Tomás and Pecos laughed out loud and Daniella choked back a giggle as the giant of a man pulled on the mule’s lead rope with all his weight, to no avail. Crane finally dropped the rope and stomped around behind the animal and gave it a push. The mule objected and lashed out with a sharp hoof.

  Crane quickly dodged, then cursed. He left the mule and went inside the shed next to the barn. How odd, Daniella thought, eyeing the load on the mule’s back. It was prospecting gear. What would anyone be prospecting for in this valley? Uncle John had never mentioned finding a hint of silver or gold on his ranch.

  When Crane came out of the shed, he carried a hefty chunk of firewood. Puzzled, Daniella watched him walk up to the mule’s head, then club the beast right between the eyes.

  Daniella gasped in outrage and sprinted toward the corral, cocking her rifle as she ran. At the sound, Crane spun to face her, the firewood raised in his hand as if he thought it could ward off a bullet.

  “You hit that mule again, mister, it’ll be the last thing you do.”

  Crane sniffed and growled, “I’ll treat my mule any way I damn well please.”

  “Not on my land you won’t. Now mount up and ride out, before I change my mind and shoot you where you stand.”

  Crane hesitated, weighing his odds. Just then Tucker, Manuel, and the cattle arrived, followed by Simon and the sheep. Crane swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. With a snarl, he pitched the chunk of wood aside, grabbed the mule’s lead, and mounted up. When he spurred his horse, the mule followed.

  As he rode past Daniella, he glared at her with cold gray eyes. “You and me’s not finished, gal. You haven’t heard the last of Billy Joe Crane.”

  Daniella returned his glare. “Let me give you a warning, Mr. Crane. If you ever set foot in this valley again, I’ll shoot you on sight.”

  Chapter Six

  It was late—after midnight. Travis Colton sank down onto the soft leather sofa in his study with a weary sigh. His head fell back and his eyes slid shut. At the gentle nudge on his shoulder a moment later, he opened his eyes and took the drink his father held out.

  “Anything?” Jason Colton asked his son.

  “Not a goddamn thing,” Travis said with disg
ust. “It’s as if he’s just disappeared. None of the Army’s scouts have spotted him, or even heard about him. Neither has anyone else.”

  At thirty years of age, Travis Colton had never felt so helpless, so frustrated, or so scared in his life. It was already May, and Matt had been missing since February. Missing. Stolen by Apaches right off the stagecoach near Apache Pass. Was Matt still alive after all this time? Travis forced the question away. Of course he was still alive. He had to be. Dear God, he just had to be.

  He took a sip of whiskey and felt it burn a path down his dry throat. He closed his eyes again in exhaustion, and remembered. In December he’d received a letter from his late wife’s father. The old man was sick and dying, and wanted to see his grandson one last time. Unable to deny the man’s request, Travis had taken Matt east and spent a few weeks with the boy’s maternal grandfather. The trip had gone well. The weeks they’d spent with the old man seemed to cheer him somewhat, and Matt’s grandfather was in good spirits when they left him.

  When Travis and Matt were almost home, disaster struck.

  Apaches—disaster—they were the same in Travis’s mind. Warriors swooped down on the unsuspecting stage, shot everyone on board, and took Matt. They even took the team of horses. When the Army found the stage the next day, Travis was the only one left alive.

  He didn’t remember how they got him home, he only remembered waking up in his own bed several days later, the pain in his face nearly unbearable. Just the memory of it made the scar on his cheek throb. He took another healthy swallow of whiskey.

  He’d awakened that morning to learn Matt had not been rescued. As soon as he’d been able, he’d hit the trail and started searching. Day after day he and his men rode the hills and valleys for any sign of a small white boy in the company of Apaches. They’d run into a few small hunting parties and one raiding party, but there was never a sign of Matt. Neither Travis nor the Army had been able to capture any of the Apaches alive for questioning.

  He and his men had been staying out on the trail until their supplies ran out, then they would return home to rest a day or two, load up with fresh supplies, and change horses. This last time out they’d been gone three weeks, and still no trace of Matt.