The Peacemaker

by Chelley Kitzmiller

  In a matter of minutes it had become a battlefield. One dead warrior lay face up in the mud, rain falling into his sightless eyes. A second warrior knelt beside a boulder, trying to hold back the stream of blood that poured from his stomach. Expressionless, he stared at Indy, made a grunt of noise and slumped down in front of the boulder. Dead.

  Her captor's arm tightened like a cinch around her waist. Again she cried out and again was ignored. He said something to her in Apache but she didn't understand his words. Again, he touched his heels to the horse's flanks, signaling it to walk forward.

  Through the rain, Indy saw a young warrior, naked but for his breechclout, and Jim, who had stripped off his shirt. They faced each other across a distance of several yards. The orange-yellow glow of the fire reflected off Jim's rain-wet body, accentuating the rippling, fluid muscles in his back and arms. Watching him closely, she saw that he was clearly the more skilled of the two. Crouching down, his legs spread wide, he thrust and jabbed his long-bladed knife, tempting and teasing his opponent. In his left hand, he held his shirt, which was twisted around itself like a thick rope. He used it like a whip to lash out at the warrior's legs.

  He was Shatto now—as much of a savage as his rival and her captor. Shatto—Major Jim Garrity—one in the same no matter how he dressed or what language he spoke. A dangerous adversary who wielded a knife as easily as he reined a horse. A savage who could kill a man without a bit of remorse. And a man who had the power to turn her inside out and make her feel things that no respectable woman should feel.

  Thunder rumbled overhead and the horse blew out of its nostrils. The noise must have reached Shatto's ears for he glanced around at Indy. Then, without warning, he raised his left arm and lashed out at his opponent's face with his shirt-whip. The young warrior reeled backward. Shatto seized the opportunity and closed the distance between them and threw him to the ground.

  Indy felt the tensing of her captor's hard-muscled thighs against the backs of her legs. His reaction seemed to indicate his anxiety over his companion's fate. But, if that was true, why didn't he get down and help him? Perhaps it was a matter of custom or pride with the Apaches not to come to the other's aid?

  Holding a knife to the young warrior’s throat, Shatto called out, "Let the woman go, Chie."

  "No. The woman is mine."

  Indy's heart sank. She had not realized that her captor was Chie, the warrior who had led the attack on the ambulance the day she came to Bowie. Since then she had heard any number of stories regarding Chie. Apparently he was an outcast even among his own people.

  "Let her go now or I'll kill this brave," Shatto warned, his eyes mirroring the flames of the burning building in the distance.

  "He is nothing to me."

  "If he is nothing to you, why didn't you ride away and take the woman with you when you had the chance?" Shatto challenged. When Chie did not answer, Shatto taunted him with "Is it because this foolish brave is Chie's son?"

  Indy knew by the way Chie stiffened that Shatto had hit upon the answer. Was it a guess or did he know?

  "Shatto has eyes of the hawk but sees only what is before him. If you kill my son, I will kill the woman."

  "We will make a bargain. I will give your son back to you if you let go of the woman."

  Chie then said something in Apache that Indy took as an agreement. Next thing she knew Chie was slicing through her wrist bindings and shoving her off his horse. She moved away quickly, running toward a boulder, afraid he might change his mind.

  "You all right, Indy?" Shatto called to her.

  "Yes." It was all she could manage as she tried to rub some feeling back into her hands.

  Like Indy, the young brave had also gotten away as quickly as he could. He had dashed across to where his father sat upon his horse.

  It was over, Indy thought. She breathed a sigh of relief, then cringed when she heard Shatto's taunting words.

  "Chie is a woman who sends old men and boys to fight Shatto."

  Chie's chest expanded with an indrawn breath of rage. "Chie is not woman. Chie is great warrior with much power."

  "If Chie is so great a warrior why does he not fight Shatto himself?" Shatto mocked.

  Oh, God, Indy thought. Why? Why did he have to insult Chie? Why couldn't he just let them go? Angry and afraid all over again, she considered abandoning him and running back to camp to get the help she had sought in the first place. Only she couldn't do it. She couldn't move.

  Chie dismounted and tossed the reins to his son. "Shatto is a fool like the bluecoat nantan."

  Indy held her breath as the two men moved toward some invisible central point and stopped. It seemed an interminable time that they did nothing but stare at each other.

  A tremendous burst of light illuminated the sky. Fiery fingers of lightning streaked across the sky, linking heaven to earth. Chie's horse bolted and ran off in a panic toward the camp.

  The relentless rain combined with the lightning flashes made it difficult for Indy to see. Reluctantly she came out from behind the boulder.

  Like dancers, the two men moved in a sort of circle, reaching, thrusting, jabbing, each testing the other's skill and agility. Chie was the more graceful, but Shatto was faster and his superior skill with a knife was immediately evident. He lunged forward and slashed the tip of his blade across Chie's upper arm.

  Indy was repulsed by the sick excitement she felt at Shatto having drawn first blood. She chastised herself yet could not turn away.

  Long minutes passed as the two went back and forth, left and right, lunging and retreating. It seemed to Indy that the fighting would go on forever because neither man could get enough of an advantage to best the other.

  She was wrong. In the blink of an eye, Shatto grabbed Chie's right arm and twisting himself around so that his back was against the Indian's midsection, he pulled Chie over him and threw him on the ground.

  Chie rolled away and came up covered with mud. Like an enraged bull, he charged Shatto, who adroitly stepped out of his way.

  Indy's hands clasped and unclasped. Her teeth clenched. She could hardly tell who was who, both were so black with mud.

  Their arms locked. Bodies twisted and strained, dodged and ducked until, at length, Shatto drew his knife arm back in a half coil and thrust it forward, driving his blade between Chie's ribs all the way to the hilt.

  All was silent for a moment. Shatto moved back, his chest rising and falling with exertion. He glanced at Indy and frowned.

  Holding his side, Chie managed to sit up. The rain was like a silvery curtain separating him from Shatto. Mud ran down from his head into his eyes and mouth. "Shatto is not Apache," he accused.

  "No," Shatto conceded. "I am not Apache. I am white eyes."

  Chie nodded slowly, his body beginning to slacken. He fell forward and splashed facedown into the mud.

  Immediately Shatto turned to Chie's son, who stood staring down at his father, his face a pitiless mask. "You will go to your camp and tell your father's braves that Shatto has taken Chie's power. Tell them to return to Cochise."

  Without a word, the young warrior ran off into the night.

  A blast of rain-wet wind hit Indy in the face, forcing her to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw a finger of wind whip around Shatto’s body and circle him like a rope. She saw him struggle against its force, fighting it as he had fought Chi.

  At length the wind died just as Chi had died and Shatto crossed the distance between them and took her in his arms. She was stiff and unyielding and he knew it was because she was afraid of him, of what she had seen. It was all too much. The fighting, killing—that she would understand. But the wind—the devil wind that had haunted him since his youth, insisting that he was destined to be a peacemaker--that she wouldn’t understand. Even he had difficulty understanding why he, a white man, had been chosen by the wind spirit to mentor. Why not Toriano or Cochise? They were in better positions to be peacemakers than he was.

  His thoughts
turned. He felt a painful gnawing deep inside his gut at the thought of what might have happened to Indy if his strength had not held out, if Chie had killed him. There had been moments when he seriously doubted he would succeed. The only thing that had kept him going was knowing what Chie would do to Indy once he got her away from Bowie. Rape was the least of it. Chie's brand of revenge demanded the worst kinds of torture that kept his victims alive and suffering for days.

  He had no idea how long he had been standing there holding her. He only knew that he couldn't seem to hold her close enough, and that he would kill anybody who tried to take her from him. Even that damn father of hers. The rain came down in torrents, yet Jim couldn't bring himself to let her go. The minute he did he would have to return her to camp, which would mean he would have to take her to her father.

  He could guess at the colonel's reaction to their sodden appearance and his inappropriate dress. Questions were inevitable, and it was up to him to answer them since he was responsible. But what could he say? That he had been so desperate to get Indy alone so he could make love to her that he had misplaced his good judgment?

  He had been a fool, he thought bitterly. If he had heeded his own warning and stayed inside the camp's perimeters none of this would have happened.

  Taking hold of her arms he moved her away from him. "I guess I'd better get you back," he said, more sternly than he had intended. It was hard to know what to say to her. The fact that she wasn't crying surprised him and concerned him. Any other woman would have become hysterical long ago. "Are you all right?"

  "I think so." She took a step back.

  "Dammit, Indy. You don't look all right."

  She took a deep breath and he sensed her frustration. "I'm tired," she said, clenching her hands.

  But she was more than tired, he thought, his brows drawing together in a frown. She seemed spiritless, world-weary and he was to blame.

  He had started them heading back to camp when a group of soldiers came running toward them, and another group toward the butcher's building. They stopped and waited.

  Sergeant Moseley slid to a stop and saluted. "I've been lookin' all over for you, Major. I wanted to report an Indian pony wanderin' around the parade ground, and I—" He halted midsentence, his eyes widening in alarm when he recognized Indy. "Beggin' your pardon, sir." He sounded embarrassed. "I didn't realize you were— Miss Taylor?" He leaned forward to get a closer look. "Is that you, ma'am?"

  "Yes, Sergeant, it's me," she answered, her voice strained.

  Jim realized how she must have looked to Moseley. Half-drowned, her hair soaking wet and hanging straight down her back. Her pretty yellow dress all mud-covered and clinging to her slender body like a second skin, showing every curve, every hollow—curves and hollows he didn't want every soldier at Bowie to see.

  "We ran into a little trouble, Sergeant, and Miss Taylor here has had quite a scare. I was just taking her back to her quarters."

  "Trouble, sir?"

  Jim gestured a hand behind him and Moseley went to investigate. It was a moment before the soldier spoke. "What in God's name happened here?" He heeled around and came back to Jim and Indy, looking for an answer.

  "I'll make a full report in the morning, Sergeant. Get a detail to bring the bodies into camp, then lay them out under the flagpole."

  "Lay them out, sir?"

  "You heard me right, Moseley. Lay them out just as they are and don't cover them up. Furthermore, they're to stay there until I give the order that they're to be buried. I want to make sure every soldier at Bowie has a chance to see what dead Apaches look like."

  Moseley's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "But, sir—" he started and stopped in two steps. His brow smoothed and a slow smile drew up the corners of his mouth. "Yes, sir! Wise decision, sir. I'll take care of it." He saluted, then shouted orders to his men to go back into camp and get a wagon.

  Jim didn't bother saluting back. He couldn't care less about military protocol. Right now the only thing that he did care about was getting Indy back to her quarters.

  Moments later they were at Indy's door. When Indy reached for the doorknob he said, "I'm coming in with you, Indy. I need to talk to your father."

  "I can tell him what happened," she offered.

  "No. I'll tell him."

  "Is that an order, Major?"

  "Yes." He reached around in front of her, opened the door, and let them inside.

  Colonel Charles Taylor looked up from the letter he had been reading. His eyes slowly narrowed with suspicion as he took in the bedraggled couple before him. "What's going on here?" he asked in an accusing tone. He put the letter down on the table next to his chair and rose to his feet, tightening the belt of his burgundy satin dressing gown.

  "Father, I—"

  "Go to your room, Indy," Jim interrupted. "I'll explain to your father."

  "Now, wait just a minute here," the colonel protested, reaching out for Indy's arm as she passed by him. She didn't stop. "Independence!" he shouted, taking a step toward her, but was brought up short when Jim moved in front of him barring the way. "I beg your pardon, Major."

  "You can beg it all you want, Colonel, but Indy's been through a lot tonight, thanks to you and me."

  Colonel Taylor's eyes darkened to the color of lead. "By God— If you molested her—"

  "Would you care?"

  "What kind of question is that?"

  "A simple one. With a simple yes or no answer."

  "I don't think I like your attitude."

  "No. I don't imagine you do. You're not used to people challenging your authority."

  "Must I remind you who you're talking to, Major? I happen to be your commanding officer. Speaking to me in such a manner could warrant me charging you with in—"

  "I know." Jim almost laughed. "Insubordination. And, let me guess, for punishment you'll have me ride the cannon." Jim clenched his hands to his sides, and for one rash, unthinking moment, he considered pulling his knife and jabbing its tip beneath the colonel's chin just to scare him. Nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to see the man quiver like a frightened rabbit.

  The colonel must have read his thoughts; his face paled and there was a flash of fear in his eyes that Jim found immensely gratifying. "Why don't you sit down, Colonel, sir?" It was more of an order than a suggestion, but the colonel did indeed sit down. "Now then, like I said, Indy has been through a lot tonight because of you and me."

  The moment Indy stepped into her bedroom and closed the door tears filled her eyes and her knees started to quiver. A delayed reaction, she thought, putting her hands over her mouth to stifle her sobs so that neither Jim nor her father would hear.

  Weary to the bone, she moved cautiously across the room and grabbed on to the back of the chair and slowly began to remove her clothing, tossing each item into the corner.

  Out in the parlor, Jim and her father were arguing. Jim had no regard for her father; she had guessed as much the day she burned her hands on the coffeepot and Jim had defended her rude and impertinent behavior. Now there could be no doubt about Jim's feelings; his tone of voice evidenced his aversion along with the way he mocked her father about riding the cannon. As far as Indy knew, no one had ever talked to Colonel Charles Taylor in such a manner. Maybe if someone had, long ago, he wouldn't have become such a tyrant.

  Indy was actually surprised her father didn't order him out. Then she remembered: he needed Major Jim Garrity. Needed him badly. First to salve the troopers' complaints so they wouldn't send in their petition. And second because the Indian commissioner was due to arrive any day. Without Jim's training her father couldn't show that he was making significant changes in his handling of the Apache situation.

  No, Indy thought, he wouldn't order Jim out, and he wouldn't press any charges against him, or order any form of punishment. The consequences of Jim not performing the task of training the men would undoubtedly mean the end of her father's military career, a career he had devoted his entire life to.

>   Within minutes the arguing stopped and Jim began a detailed explanation of how the fire had started and of Chie's thwarted kidnapping plans. That Jim believed Chie had come specifically to capture her so he could use her against her own father to get what he wanted was just one more shock to add to the others she had received tonight.

  Her father asked a number of questions but none of them required revealing why she and Jim had gone beyond Bowie's perimeters. Nor did he again ask if she had been molested.

  By the time Jim had finished relating the story, Indy was finished washing. She desperately needed a bath but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Choking back a sob, she turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder to see what damage Chie had caused with his knife. There were a couple of bloody spots, little pricks, but nothing serious. Holding a wet cloth and reaching around behind her back, she wiped the area clean, then put on a freshly laundered nightdress.

  Rain was still coming down in torrents when Indy finally crawled into bed. It had been a long day and an even longer evening and she was glad for its end. She lay flat on her back, hands clasped over her stomach, staring at the ceiling.

  Jim had left a few minutes ago, and now she could hear her father moving around in the parlor. The rustle of paper told her he was refolding Justice's letters and putting them away. His beloved letters that meant more to him than anything else.

  She half expected him to knock on the door and insist to speak to her, to chastise her for blatantly disregarding his authority and turning her back on him. But he didn't. Instead, he went into his room and closed the door.

  All was quiet now except for the rain, which didn't show any sign of letting up. The September rains were legendary and in spite of bringing relief to the drought-like conditions that had existed since the middle of May, they were not something to look forward to, according to Ava, Aphra, and Opal, all of whom had been in residence at the first Camp Bowie. Indy recalled their description of the horrors they had suffered from leaking roofs, mold and mildew, herds of insects, spiders, and other creatures seeking shelter from the rains.