by Frank Leslie
One night in the mountains above the Mexican pueblito of Tucson, in the Arizona Territory, where they hoped to acquire supplies for their pull into Mexico, Willie came to James in a dream. He saw Willie’s face in that moment just after James had thrust the knife into his brother’s chest and saw that blue eye that was like looking into a mirror. Recognition shone in that lone, pain-racked eye at the same time that James screamed his brother’s name and pulled the knife out as quickly as he’d shoved it in.
“Willie!”
He heard the scream echoing around the rocky canyon, as though it had been shouted by someone else from a distant ridge. Only then, a second later, when he opened his eyes and heard his own labored breaths raking in and out of his lungs working like a bellows, did he realize he’d screamed it himself. He was bathed in sweat, his clothes glued to his skin beneath the double wool blankets of his hot roll.
Instantly, Crosseye and Vienna were kneeling beside him, Crosseye wheezing, “Good Lord, Jimmy!” and Vienna calling his name as though trying to summon him back from a great distance. Sitting straight up, back taut, he shifted his gaze from Crosseye’s bearded, cross-eyed face to Vienna’s fine, pale, perfectly feminine one, framed in mussed chocolate hair, and he drew a deep breath as he sagged back onto his elbows.
He blinked slowly as the image of Willie hovering just behind his retinas sagged slowly back into the misty, black water of Snake Creek, mercifully gone from his sight though the dream’s memory remained, nearly as real as the memory of the actual event.
“He’s gone, James,” Vienna said. “He’s gone, and you didn’t mean to kill him. It was the war. You’re here, and Crosseye and I are here, in the West, and now we’re all that matters.” She smiled weakly but encouragingly, then slid her face to his and pressed her lips to his temple.
He knew she’d meant the kiss to be comforting, but it only aroused a welter of conflicting emotions inside him, and he felt as though he’d somehow stuck that knife into his own lung.
“Thirsty,” he said, throwing his blankets aside, and rising. “Gonna take a walk.”
He stomped into his boots, grabbed the Henry repeater that he went nowhere without, and stumbled off into the brush and the rocks beyond the soft, umber glow of their fire. He walked through some willows, saw the stars arching between toothy black mountain peaks, and drew a deep draught of air into his lungs. He shivered against the mountain chill.
Maybe he hadn’t come as far as he’d thought he had. How far did you have to travel to outrun a memory?
He stood out there for a time, taking deep breaths, then sat on a rock and lit a black cigar he’d bought at a mercantile in a mountain crossroads town and mining camp called Payson. He smoked it halfway down slowly. When he’d smoked half of it, he peeled off the coal, returned the cheroot to the breast pocket of his shirt, then walked back through the brush toward the fire’s low glow.
He passed under a willow branch and stopped suddenly at the edge of the firelight. His heart thudded. He brought the Henry down in both hands, but held it against his chest, the barrel up, as someone shouted incoherently—it sounded like a mixture of grunts and clipped, hard consonants.
Three figures in addition to Vienna and Crosseye were gathered about the low, quiet fire. One stood to the left of it. Another knelt behind Vienna, who sat up on her bedroll, facing James from the other side of the fire. Crosseye sat with his back against a rock to the fire’s right side, holding his thick hands high above his head, one leg extended, the other leg and cavalry boot angled inward.
James could see only the silhouettes of the three stocky figures, and their colorful headbands and red or green sashes. He could also see the knife in the hand of the one crouched behind Vienna, the steel tip of which was pressed taut to the underside of the girl’s chin. The man near Crosseye was aiming an arrow nocked to a bow at Crosseye’s face. The Apache nearest James, on the left side of the fire, was aiming a nocked arrow at James.
Crosseye said while keeping his head turned toward the native nearest him, “Damn, but they were quiet, Jimmy.”
This first man was the one who’d spoken, if you could call it speaking. He cut loose with the grunting and spitting snarls once more and gestured with his bow and arrow. James lowered the Henry in one hand, looking once more at the knife held in the hand of the Apache crouched behind Vienna. She stared straight over the fire at James. The fire’s dark red glow was reflected in her shadowy eyes.
James set the Henry down against the tree to his right and raised his hands palms out. His heart slowed, his anxiety ebbing like the last waters down a flooded streambed. Funny how a nightmare could drive him to the brink of madness but moments of true terror slowed time down for him, steadied him, lightened his limbs, and honed his vision, preparing him for battle.
The Indian nearest him spoke again loudly, sharply, and gestured with the arrow, making the bow’s drawn-taut sinew creak. James stepped to the left, away from the Henry, for the native who’d spoken was obviously after the rifle. As the man moved toward him, James glanced past him toward the knife held against Vienna’s neck. Too close. If James or Crosseye made any kind of an offensive move at all, he’d lay Vienna’s neck wide open.
The possibility chilled his blood, but his heart continued its slow, steady, insistent rhythm, his mind working through his options.
“You want the gun?” James said, keeping his hands raised. “All right. Take the rifle.”
The first Apache lowered the bow and arrow, glancing at the others and spewing out his guttural tongue, likely telling his partners to stay alert. James heard one of his party’s horses give a nervous nicker from where they were tied back in the brush.
“You think they speak English?” James said.
The Indian nearest him looked at him sharply as he picked up the Henry. James could tell by the Indian’s expression that he hadn’t understood. He kept his wary, vaguely puzzled, dark brown eyes on James a moment longer, then lowered his eyes to the rifle in his hands, impressed. He studied the sixteen-shooter closely, obviously never having seen such a weapon before. He ran his hands down the loading tube and barrel, then held the piece close to his face, inspecting the receiver.
James felt the nerves in his ankles twitch. Should he make his move? He glanced at the savage with the knife. The man was also looking at the rifle in his partner’s hands, but the knife was still pressed against the underside of Vienna’s chin.
Maybe not as tightly as before…?
James slid his eyes toward the Apache nearest Crosseye. He couldn’t see the native’s eyes, but his face seemed turned slightly toward the one with James’s rifle.
The one with the rifle toyed with the hammer, then held it up and inspected the cocking mechanism, frowning. Finally, he took the rifle under his arm, pulled the lever down slowly, then just as slowly shoved it back up under the stock. He’d seen the shell slide out of the receiver and become lodged beneath the hammer, which was now cocked.
James had a sinking sensation. That cocked repeater in the hands of this precocious Apache was like giving a razor-edged pocketknife to a baby.
Crosseye must have been reading James’s mind. “I reckon if we’re gonna make our move, now’d be a good time,” the older man said.
James said, “What about our friend with the knife?”
“That’s a problem,” Crosseye admitted, keeping his eyes on the Apache nearest him, who spoke loudly in his guttural tongue, jerking his cocked bow at Crosseye. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate his prisoners’ idle chatter.
The Apache nearest James held up the rifle to show the others. The one with the knife smiled. He lowered the knife from Vienna’s chin and slid the flat of the blade down across her shirt and over the tip of her right breast. He squeezed her other breast with his other hand.
James jerked forward, but stopped when he saw that the native nearest him had the cocked Henry aimed at his head.
Chapter 17
James stared down the rectangular
maw of his own Henry repeater. The Apache’s rawboned, broad-nosed face hovered over the other end of it, grinning, dimpled cheeks twin pools of shadow.
James stood frozen, every nerve in his body twitching, his heart now quickening. He watched with another sinking feeling as the Indian’s right index finger closed over the Henry’s trigger and began tightening.
Vienna gave an angry grunt. “You bastard!” she shouted.
In the periphery of James’s vision, he saw her throw an arm up and over the right one of the Apache groping her, and reached for her assailant’s knife. As the Indian holding the Henry on James shifted his eyes slightly toward the struggling pair, James lurched forward, whipped his right arm up, and knocked the Henry sideways. It barked loudly, the concussion of the report like a fist hammered against his ear. At the same time, James slid his Green River knife from its sheath on his right hip and thrust it into the belly of the Apache before him.
He pulled the knife out quickly and glanced toward Vienna. The second Apache had her on the ground before him, struggling as the warrior raised the knife over his head, blade angled straight down.
With one quick flick of his right wrist, James’s own knife was hurling end over end through the darkness, disappearing for a moment before reappearing with a crunching thud in the dead center of the chest of the second Apache at the same time that the savage started to thrust his own blade down toward Vienna’s neck. The native’s knife hand froze, and he jerked back with the Green River knife in his chest, dark blood boiling up around the blade.
He fell back on the ground and mewled, lifting his head, lips stretched from his teeth, to glare at the knife that had all but killed him.
James picked up his rifle and turned to where Crosseye’s thick frame was jostling around in the shadows beyond the far end of the camp. James pressed the stock against his shoulder and tried to draw a bead on the Indian whom Crosseye was struggling with. It appeared to be a bizarre dance. Then Crosseye swung to the left, and the Indian was twirled to the right, screaming. Crosseye lunged toward the brave and slammed his big head into that of the Apache, making a solid smack!
James lowered the Henry as the brave dropped, limbs slackening. Crosseye snarled like an angry grizzly, stepped toward the brave on the ground and slid the Lefaucheux from behind his belt. The big pistol roared. The brave’s head bounced off the ground, the right temple ruined, and lay still.
Crosseye looked around. He met James’s gaze.
“Don’t you ever tell me I smell bad again, Jimmy,” he said with a growl. “I don’t smell half as bad as these fellers!”
James walked over to where Vienna was climbing to her knees. He held the Henry straight out from his right hip, aimed at the Apache who was still groaning and flopping around with the Green River knife sticking straight up from his chest.
“You all right?” he asked her.
She heaved herself to her feet, dusted off her pants. She was breathing hard. Sweeping her hair back from her face with a forearm, she said, “Not the best night for sleeping, is it?”
James moved off into the shrubs toward where the horses were picketed. He knew that Crosseye would scout the other side of the camp, as James searched this side. Where there were three Apaches, there could be more.
The horses were spooked, drawing back on their hackamore ropes that were tied to the picket line strung between two cottonwoods. Spooked in a way that told James, accustomed to the manner of horses in all shades of battle, that no further Indian trouble was likely imminent. If there were more Indians out this way, the horses would likely have scented them and be kicking up a bigger fuss.
At least, he thought they would. He was at a disadvantage out here in this alien territory and having no previous experience with the Western brand of native. He’d heard much about the Apaches—that they were fierce nomadic warriors giving up their traditional lands at great cost in white blood, but until tonight he’d never seen one up close. As far as he could tell, they were all elemental rage packed in dark, stocky vessels of hard muscle and steely sinew—born and bred for fighting.
James ran a hand down the neck of Vienna’s horse, a grullo they’d traded with a rancher for. Vienna had bought the horse and a packhorse for the party with twenty-three gold dollars she’d produced from her croker sack. She’d never said where she’d gotten the loot, and James hadn’t asked. He figured it was money she’d stolen from Mangham, which was just fine with James. She’d likely earned every penny.
Calming the grullo’s taut nerves, he stared off toward the high, rocky, talus-strewn ridge that rose about fifty yards away, its base a gauzy, black jumble of ironwood, stunt cedars, and boulders. Taking his Henry in both hands, he moved out away from the horses and padded soundlessly through the brush and gravel to the base of the ridge.
He stood there for a full five minutes, looking around and listening, hearing nothing but the occasional cry of a night bird and the faint muttering of a spring bubbling out of the rocks and into a sandy-bottomed pool. Finally, he walked east along the base of the ridge for nearly a hundred yards, setting each low-heeled cavalry boot down carefully. He turned and walked back the way he’d come and past the spring for another hundred yards.
Still, no sounds but the birds and the single, mournful howl of a faraway wolf.
He walked back toward the camp, stopped when he saw a silhouette standing between him and the dark shapes of the horses.
Vienna’s voice: “James?”
“Yeah.”
He moved toward her. She stood there in the darkness, tense, turning her head slowly from left to right, looking around. James put a hand on her arm. “You’re shivering.”
“Spooked me,” she said, and swallowed. “I’d just started drifting off to sleep when…”
“They had to be damn quiet to sneak up on Crosseye.” He could feel the fluttering of her nerves and muscles under the serape she’d dropped over her shirt. “Did he hurt you?”
Vienna looked up at him. He could see her face in the shadows, the sheen of her gray eyes and her lips. “No, just put the fear of God into me, I reckon. Denver City was all new to me. This place…out here.” She placed her hands on her shoulders and looked around once more. “I guess I didn’t know what I was getting us all into. It wasn’t fair of me to ask you to come here, to do this.”
“Hell,” James said with a rueful snort, “Crosseye and me don’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, I…uh…I like helpin’ you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
She stared up at him. Her lips were slightly parted. Her eyes stared straight into his. He could smell her—warm and slightly fragrant, like blackberry blossoms along the creek running along the southern border of Seven Oaks. Her skin was pale as flour in the deep night. He wanted to press his lips to the smooth curve of her neck beneath the thick hair tumbling over her shoulder.
There it was again—the fluttering of his heart, the twisting of his gut. Before he knew it, he’d drawn her to him with one hand. With the Henry’s barrel, he nudged his Confederate gray hat back off his forehead and pressed his mouth against hers.
To his vague surprise, she did not pull away from him. Rising onto her toes, she opened her lips. He felt the wet tip of her tongue curling against his own, and it was like a warm hand caressing his loins. He turned his head, grinding his lips against hers, drawing her harder against him, until he could feel the hammering of her heart against his ribs.
He had to have her. There was no denying the need.
She pulled her head back from his, jerked her arm from his hand, and stepped away, almost stumbling, gasping. Looking down, she swallowed, shook her head. “Not yet, James,” she said softly, shaking her hair back as she looked up at him once more. “It’s too soon.”
“Nothin’s ever gonna change, Vienna,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll always have killed Willie.”
“Not because you killed Willie, James, but because you can’t let him go.”
He star
ed at her. “Can you?”
She drew a breath, let it out slowly. Her voice was quiet, steady. “I already have.”
Footsteps sounded on James’s left. He wheeled.
“Crosseye,” came the oldster’s low, gravelly voice, announcing himself. “See any more of them devils?”
“No.”
“Musta grown up right out of the rocks,” Crosseye said in disgust, “or I’m gettin’ too damn old.”
As the old frontiersman moved forward, James looked at Vienna. She was still gazing up at him, as though there’d been something else she’d wanted to say. But now she turned and walked back around the horses toward the camp.
Crosseye walked up to James and stared after her. James could hear him breathing, his broad, rounded chest rising and falling slowly behind the crisscrossed bandoliers he rarely removed even to sleep.
“Hope I didn’t interrupt nothin’.” Crosseye grinned.
“You got bats in your belfry, old son.” James strode off toward the camp.
The next day around noon, stone and plank shanties sprouted up out of the desert along both sides of the stage and freight road that James, Crosseye, and Vienna were following, Crosseye trailing the packhorse by a lead rope.
The air was cool, but the sun rained like liquid brass out of an arching, periwinkle sky. A weathered wooden sign appeared along the trail’s right side, leaning toward the one-armed saguaro standing to its right. The paint on the sign was so badly faded that James had to scrutinize it carefully before he could make out the ghostlike lettering: TUCSON, ARIZ. TERR.
He glanced behind him, toward the mountains they’d ridden down out of before reaching this relatively flat expanse of desert. The trail meandered through saguaros, paloverde trees, mesquites, and ironwood, disappearing into a tangle of brush fifty yards away. They hadn’t seen any Apaches or even Apache sign all morning, and that made him nervous. He’d heard from cowpokes and ranchers on the way down here that not seeing Apache sign was often the worst sign of all.
