“It was Pace.” Serena’s face crumpled. Matt held out his arms to her and she flew into them sobbing. “It was Pace.”
“Would somebody tell me what the hell is going on here?” Spence demanded. “What did those words mean?”
“Duunshúńlídádááł,” Matt repeated with a hard swallow. “It means…It means, you will not hope for me. You will know I am gone.”
Daniella tore herself from her husband’s arms. “No!” She glared at Travis, at Matt and Serena, at Spence. “By God, no! We will not cower here in this room and simply let him go this way! South. All I know is that he is somewhere to the south. The rest of you do what you must. At sunup, I’m going after my son.”
Chapter Twelve
Dusk was turning into true night by the time Joanna bypassed the town of Basaranca that Pace had warned her away from and found the scree slope beside the lava outcropping he had described. She was numb with fear, despair, exhaustion. The buckskin’s steps were sluggish as he lumbered up the gravel mound toward a dark crevice in the side of the mountain.
Finally the gravel gave way to solid ground, and Joanna’s despair deepened. She had no idea which way to go from here, and even if she did, it was too dark to discern anything resembling a trail. Where were the Apache trail guards Pace had promised?
No sooner had the question crossed her mind than two gray shadows separated from the blacker shadows beneath the trees and moved toward her.
The shadows resolved themselves into two young Apache men on horseback. “Thank God,” Joanna breathed.
They stared at her a long moment, studying her as though she were some strange creature. One of them lowered his gaze from her face, and his eyes widened. It took her a moment to realize he’d seen Pace’s medicine pouch with its distinctive lightning emblem hanging from her neck. She touched the pouch.
Joanna understood the Chiricahua language better than she spoke it, which wasn’t saying much. Either way, her vocabulary was extremely limited. She spoke in Spanish, hoping they would understand her. “Fire Seeker sent me.”
“Núuká,” one said to her in Apache.
Come. That much, she understood. “Yes,” she answered. “Please, you must take me to Dee-O-Det. We must hurry.”
It took another two hours to reach the hidden rancheria known to The People as Pa-Gotzin-Kay. Every step of the way, Joanna worried over how to convince the Apaches to help her go back for Pace. She wouldn’t let herself believe it was too late. He had to still be alive. He had to be!
The trail led higher into the mountains. That was about all Joanna could tell, because it was too dark to see. She rode between the two Apaches, one of them before her, one following. The buckskin followed the one in the lead without much urging on Joanna’s part.
Finally Joanna spotted a light through the trees ahead. As they rode into a clearing, she could see the glow came from a large campfire, which was surrounded by approximately two dozen grass wickiups. Next to the campfire stood a wrinkled, gray-headed man who looked older than Moses. This, then, must be the old shaman, Dee-O-Det.
He looked, Joanna thought with shock, as though he’d been expecting her.
Joanna slid from her horse, and, once her legs steadied, she approached him. Before she could think what to say, the old man’s expression changed from one of knowing expectation, to a look of wonder. She fingered the medicine pouch, thinking that was what had caught his attention, but his gaze never wavered from her face.
In Spanish he said, “I know your eyes.”
Startled, Joanna blinked. “What?”
“What do they call you?”
“My name is Joanna Colton.”
The old man smiled. “Col-ton. I knew it. You have your mother’s eyes, my child.”
It was the last thing Joanna could have imagined anyone saying. “My…mother?” She herself barely remembered her mother. Most of her memories weren’t even actually of Angela Colton, but were instead, memories of the stories her father and Serena had told of Angela as Joanna had been growing up. But they had always told her she had her mother’s eyes.
“You are the daughter of the one called Eyes Like Summer Leaves.”
“Yes.”
“You are the daughter of Bear Killer Col-ton. The granddaughter of the Yellow Hair and Woman of Magic.”
Hearing her family called by their Apache names was strange, but oddly reassuring somehow. “I am,” she answered.
He reached out with one gnarled hand that was the color of old leather left too long in the sun, and touched the hair that had come loose from her braid. “And you are Fire Seeker’s woman.”
Joanna shivered. “How do you know that?”
The old man’s smile was half teasing, half sad. “It is a shaman’s business to know.”
“He needs help,” she said urgently. “Can you—”
“This, too, I know. But I do not know where, my child. We will go to him at once, but can you tell us where?”
Nearly limp with relief that she wasn’t going to have to beg or argue or threaten in order to get help for Pace, Joanna glanced around the compound for the first time. She was startled to find nearly thirty people had gathered. There couldn’t be many more than that who lived here, she thought.
The people ranged from the very old to the very young, and they stared at her, some wary, some merely curious. But it was to the young men that her eyes were drawn, a dozen of them, each holding the reins of his horse. They looked as if they were already ready to ride. There were other young men, looking just as eager, but without horses.
From among the crowd, one woman stepped forward. She looked to be around forty, but Joanna couldn’t be sure.
The woman smiled at her. “I am called Nod-ah-Sti. I, too, knew your mother I—several of us here, in fact—were present the night she and your father were joined. We are acquainted with many in your family. Woman of Magic, and her daughter, your stepmother, are two of my closest friends, and Fire Seeker is dear to us all. Many times he has brought food when our bellies were empty, blankets when our babies were cold. We will help you. The wind spoke to Dee-O-Det today, and our young men are ready to help you return for Fire Seeker.” With a gentle hand on Joanna’s arm, she added earnestly, “You must trust us, my friend.”
As Joanna told them everything she knew about the location of the box canyon, and about Juerta and his men, Nod-ah-Sti provided her with a crude wooden bowl filled with thick stew. By the time Joanna finished eating she had told them everything she could think of.
Niño, Nod-ah-Sti’s son, was the apparent leader of the young men who ranged in age from around seventeen to perhaps twenty-four. “I know this place of which she speaks. We will need more horses,” he added as he grinned at one of the other men.
The other one smiled back. “Horses will be no problem. Basaranca has too many horses for such a small town. We will borrow a few and catch up with you.”
“Borrow?” Nod-ah-Sti asked, raising an eyebrow.
The young man, no more than eighteen, looked chagrinned. “Yes, borrow. I know we cannot keep them, or the town will come looking for them. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”
Nod-ah-Sti nodded. “I’m glad you agree.”
There might have been trouble over Joanna’s intention of riding with the young warriors, but Dee-O-Det cut off all protests with a sharp wave of his hand.
“A woman warrior is not unheard of. In the old days there were some. Hair Like Fire will ride with us. It is her right.”
Hair Like Fire.
For the first time since entering the mountains with Pace that morning, Joanna smiled.
Dee-O-Det determined that the buckskin Joanna had ridden in on was too tired to carry her all the way back to the box canyon. One of the young men grudgingly transferred Joanna’s saddle and gear to his own horse, and he joined those who would “borrow” mounts in Basaranca.
Everyone but Joanna and Dee-O-Det carried an extra man down out of the mountains. At the foot of the
scree slope, the extra riders slid off and disappeared into the darkness. In the distance, a few lights twinkled, marking the location of the town that would unwittingly furnish horses for an Apache raid.
Having seen the look of eagerness in the eyes of the young men, Joanna wondered how many other times the town had been so unknowingly accommodating.
Earlier in the day it had taken Joanna approximately six hours to reach the trail guards from the box canyon where she’d left Pace. Her directions had been good, it had been daylight, and she hadn’t gotten lost. Getting back should have taken longer. First, while the three-quarter moon gave off plenty of light, it was still dark. Second, to reach the mesa top, they had to ride ten miles south of where Joanna had skidded down and jumped the gorge, then they had to ride the ten miles back north to approach the box canyon. Yet for all of that, they had ridden so hard that by Joanna’s reckoning, they had shaved an hour off the trip.
Even more amazing, the warriors on their “borrowed” horses caught up with the main group less than an hour after they’d headed off on foot toward Basaranca. They’d brought an extra horse. For Fire Seeker, they said. Joanna wanted to kiss every one of them for their belief that Pace was still alive.
It wasn’t her insistence that made them believe, she knew. Part of it was their faith in Fire Seeker, the half breed Apache whom these young men had looked up to all their lives.
But most of their belief that Pace was still alive came from Dee-O-Det. He told them calmly that Fire Seeker lived, and they believed. For them, there was no doubt.
As they crossed the mesa and neared the box canyon, they slowed their horses to a walk. Joanna’s heart began pounding. What if Pace wasn’t there? What if Juerta had taken him somewhere else?
What if he’s…dead?
No! Pace was not dead. Joanna would not believe it. Would not even think it.
From ahead they heard a shout and immediately drew their horses to a halt. Joanna’s heart raced harder. Someone was still in the canyon!
Joanna and the Apaches left their horses picketed near a scattering of sagebrush and greasewood a half mile from the trail leading into the small canyon. The trail Pace had sent Joanna on, that had led her to freedom on the mesa’s top.
Because Niño was the only one other than Joanna who knew the canyon, the two of them quickly, quietly, discussed the best way to approach, and what they would do, depending on what they found.
Niño sent four of his warriors on foot to the south rim of the canyon, and four more to the north rim. From those vantage points all but the east end of the canyon could be covered.
The three remaining warriors accompanied Dee-O-Det, Niño, and Joanna, who wore a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to hide her white blouse, as they crept silently to the head of the trail. Laughter, loud and drunken, came from below, along with the glow of a large fire.
From the head of the trail, they could see past the boulders where Pace and Joanna had taken cover, down into the rest of the canyon. Juerta’s men had made camp there, but Joanna could not identify Juerta among the men she could see.
And she could not see Pace. Her heart quailed. Where was he? Dear God, where was he?
Dee-O-Det nudged her shoulder and motioned toward the concealing darkness of the boulders just beyond the foot of the trail. To get there, they would be exposed for part of the way, but there was no other way down, and no better place from which to get a closer look at the camp.
Joanna lifted the blanket to cover her hair and as much of her face as possible. Dee-O-Det nodded with approval. Niño went first, stealthily, silently, without disturbing a single rock or pebble along the trail. When he disappeared among the boulders where Joanna had last seen Pace, she held her breath and, with a borrowed rifle gripped firmly in hand and her gun belt over her shoulder, she took the trail herself.
It was steeper than she remembered, and her riding boots were not as quiet as Niño’s moccasins, but no cry of alarm went up at the few small sounds she made.
They must all be drunk down there, she thought, for surely they should be able to hear her heart pounding. To her, it sounded like the thunder of a thousand hoofbeats.
She crept to the boulders, with Dee-O-Det right behind her. Niño was already at the notch where Pace had peered out earlier that day. The other three warriors spread out around the base of the boulders.
Another burst of laughter came from the canyon floor, louder this time, more cruel sounding. A shot echoed through the canyon.
Joanna froze, fearing for an instant that she or one of the Apaches had been spotted.
A man’s voice relieved her worry. “Why do you bother?” he shouted. “He is long past feeling anything.”
“Ah, but it is no bother,” came Juerta’s voice. “It is a pleasure.”
Joanna heard a popping sound, reminding her of something, but she couldn’t remember what. Frantic, assuming the men were talking about Pace, she climbed silently onto the ledge beside Niño. The glow of the campfire beyond the boulders made the young Apache’s copper face look as though it were bathed in blood. His eyes, when he glanced at her, looked worse. They were filled with horror and rage. Joanna’s stomach tightened.
She motioned him aside so she could see for herself what had upset him. She was terrified by what she might find.
One look, and her stomach rolled. She ducked into the shadows and clamped a hand over her mouth, certain that she would throw up at any moment.
Dear God in heaven!
He’s dead. He must be dead. No man could live like that.
Pace was down there in the camp. He was tied by his wrists to an overhead branch of a dead piñon that stood fifty yards past the boulders. His loin cloth and moccasins were gone. At least Joanna thought they were gone, but it was difficult to tell, because there was not a single inch of him that was not covered in blood.
The wounds! God, how many had she seen in the brief look she’d taken? Dozens! More than dozens! Everywhere, blood and gore and deep gaping wounds.
Pace, Pace, what have they done to you?
Too late. She’d been too late. No man could live with so many wounds, so much loss of blood. Squatting there at the end of the narrow ledge, she squeezed her eyes shut and stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to keep from screaming.
But she screamed silently, in her mind, calling and calling to Pace, remembering how they had shared their thoughts without speaking. Hoping, praying to hear his answer in her heart.
No answer came.
Realizing that her stomach was not going to stop rolling, she pushed herself to her feet. She would not cower there in the rocks while that bastard used his gun and his whip on Pace, even if Pace was dead. The whip was what had made the popping noise that had sounded familiar. She’d heard the sound dozens of times when teamsters urged their oxen down the trail near the ranch.
No wonder Pace was so bloody.
She returned to the notch to find Dee-O-Det peering out. When the old man turned to her, his wrinkled face held new lines.
“Is he dead?” she asked quietly, not really caring if her voice carried, except that she wanted no harm to come to the Apaches.
The old man shook his head. “No, child. He lives. Dead men do not bleed. He lives, but for how long, I cannot say.”
Joanna met Dee-O-Det’s gaze. “I will not leave him there. If he lives, or if he’s dead, he is mine, and I will not let that bastard have him.”
Dee-O-Det nodded grimly. “Nzhú.” It is good.
“Juerta is mine, too” she stated coldly, meaning something entirely different this time.
“With my blessing,” the old man said calmly.
He and Niño found their own vantage points from which to view the canyon, leaving the notch to Joanna. Their presence close by helped steady her.
The dead tree to which Pace was tied stood between the boulders and the campfire. The way Pace was tied, he was facing south, giving Joanna a profile view. His head hung limp, his chin almost resting o
n his chest. Joanna stared hard. He wasn’t that far away, but she suddenly wished for his binoculars so she could see if he was breathing. If he was, he might not be for long. With his neck bent forward and his arms forced over his head, he could suffocate.
Juerta stood before him with his pistol in his left hand, a whip in his right. When he raised the pistol and aimed at Pace, Joanna brought her rifle up without thought and fired.
Juerta cried out; the pistol flew from his hand. He dropped his whip and grabbed the injured hand. His men were so drunk that only three of them seemed aware that anything was wrong. The others did nothing but snore in their bedrolls.
With a roar of rage, Juerta whirled toward the boulders. Letting go of his injured hand, he reached to the back of his belt and pulled out another pistol.
The three soberest among his men came to their feet, weapons drawn.
Juerta started toward the boulders.
Joanna fired, calmly and permanently destroying his left kneecap. He screamed when he went down.
The three men rushed toward him.
Joanna fired at the ground. “Back off!” she cried. “Stay away from him, or you’re next.”
“You!” Juerta cried. “You filthy, stinking puta! You have crippled me! I kill you for this, you slut!”
Joanna stood from her crouching position, revealing herself to Juerta. “When I’m through with you, you braying jackass, you won’t be able to kill anyone ever again. Instead of El Carnicero, they will call you by your true name, El Cobarde, The Coward. You,” she shouted at the nearest of his men. “Cut that man down. Get your amigos to help you. I want you to let him down nice and easy.”
With his eyes bulging and his face pale, one man started toward Pace.
“You fool,” Juerta yelled at him. “Leave him be and go after her! You are afraid of a woman?”
The man glanced from Joanna to Juerta’s mangled knee, to Juerta’s mangled hand. “How do we know she’s alone?”
“Of course she’s alone. Shoot her!”
One at a time, along first the south rim of the canyon then the north, eight rifles were cocked. The metallic sound echoed on and on until finally the last one faded away.
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