Ghost Warrior

by Lucia St. Clair Robson

  Chato knew that his people would call him a liar when he told them what he had seen, but he didn’t care. The Pale Eyes had raised him far above the rest of his people living in their crude huts on the reservations or roaming Mexico like wild animals.

  The train lurched to a halt at the Fort Leavenworth station. Soldiers came aboard and commanded the scouts off, by order of the new Bluecoat nantan, General Miles. They escorted them to a cell and locked them in. Confused, Chato and the others waited for an explanation. They received it on the way to prison at the fort in Saint Augustine, Florida. Behind its six-foot-thick stone walls they would have twenty-seven years to think about the gratitude of the government.

  BROKEN FOOT LIFTED THE LOOP OF HIS WAR CORD FROM across his chest and laid it over a leather satchel worn thin with handling. The cap of goose feathers inside looked like it had a serious case of the molt. He had performed a long ceremony over them, apologizing to them for letting them leave his possession. He had begged them not to be angry with him, and not to harm his family. He had shrieked five times; then both he and Her Eyes Open had hissed like snakes.

  Now, Her Eyes Open cried softly while he waved his hands, asking the sky to swallow him up. He patted one shoulder and then the other with the palm of his right hand. He placed both hands over his heart and sang a song asking the spirits to bless the cord and the hat’s new owner. He held them up and blew a breath in each of the four directions. Finally, he said, “Yalan, good-bye,” five times. With tears glittering in his eyes, he handed the sacred items to Lozen.

  “I have taught you the songs and ceremonies for these, Daughter. May they protect you.”

  Kaywaykla and Santiago McKinn helped Broken Foot onto his horse. Once settled in the saddle, he grinned at Lozen, but the smile resembled his former one as much as he resembled his young self.

  “I have no use for war medicine anymore.” He picked up the reins in gnarled hands that trembled constantly.

  Her Eyes Open sat on her little paint and watched while the rest of Broken Foot’s small band mounted. Kaywaykla and Santiago McKinn ran to Lozen and threw their arms around her. “May we live to see each other again, Grandmother.”

  “My sons, take care of Grandfather and Grandmother.” Lozen was sorry to see both of the boys go. There had been so few children in the band even before Broken Foot decided to leave.

  Broken Foot rode down the twisting trail leading from the high plateau to the desert floor. Her Eyes Open, six other women, and a few young ones rode with him. Almost a month ago Chihuahua and seventy-six of his people had headed north to surrender at Fort Bowie. The departures left behind Lozen, Geronimo, fifteen other warriors, twelve women, and six children, including two infants.

  Lozen could only guess how many men were pursuing them. She and the others had discussed it, more to entertain themselves than for any strategic reasons. They estimated that their enemies numbered about five thousand Bluecoats, three thousand Mexican troops, and at least a thousand American ranchers, miners, farmers, and townsmen. They could assume that everyone they met would be against them.

  Nine thousand men chasing seventeen Ndee warriors. The odds made Lozen proud. Beating the Pale Eyes was out of the question. All they could do was survive as long as possible and then take as many of their enemies with them as they could when the time came to die.

  Lozen watched Broken Foot’s small procession round a bend in the trail; then she climbed to the top of an outcrop and looked around at the mountains marching to meet the rim of the sky. From here the land looked empty of life. Lozen wondered if she and her little band were the last Ndee free of the Pale Eyes’ yokes and nooses and fences.

  The sun glowed with heat as intense as the charcoal fires of the Pale Eyes pesh-chidin, the spirits of the iron. She had scorch marks on her hands from the hot barrel of her rifle. Hunger caused her stomach to cramp. Her muscles ached.

  A fierce elation swept through her, anyway. No matter how hungry or cold or hot she was, no matter how exhausted or sore or despairing, she was free. She could roam the wide world with no one to tell her where to camp or how to act. When her band wanted to see their families, they could sneak back onto the reservation for a visit. Maybe they could convince some of their people to come away with them again.

  Lozen took pinches of pollen from her pouch and let it blow to the four directions. When she reached inside for more to rub on her forehead, she found the copper penny in the bottom of the sack. It was bright from the many times she had rubbed its surface while she wondered where Hairy Foot was and what he was doing.

  She knew that Hairy Foot’s intentions had been good when he gave the coin to her, but it had proved worthless as an amulet. The marks that said LIBERTY were another Pale Eyes lie. She threw the coin out into the hot summer air. It glinted in the sun, spinning as it fell toward the valley far below.

  The elation left as suddenly as it had arrived. With a stoneheavy heart, she walked back down to the brush shelters of their camp, most of which were empty now. The cook fires would be lonely tonight.

  FUR BRISTLED IN RIDGES ALONG GAUNT BACKS OF THE MEXICANS’ dogs when Lozen and Stands Alone rode into the dustcoated collection of thatched huts and crumbling adobe houses called Fronteras. The women stopped grinding corn and patting out tortillas and stared. The children scattered into the houses. The men watched through narrowed eyes.

  Lozen could sense the Mexicans’ hatred and fear as easily as she could smell the corn, beans, and chiles cooking. Lozen’s stomach growled. In the past three days, she had eaten a few handfuls of berries, some wild potatoes, and tornillo beans.

  All summer they had done what Geronimo enjoyed most, they had killed Mexicans and stolen their possessions. In the process, they had used up their ammunition, and they headed north toward Arizona again where they could steal more. Before they reached the border, the children’s gaunt faces had convinced Lozen to ride to Fronteras in search of supplies. Stands Alone had volunteered to come with her.

  Both of them knew they hadn’t much chance of leaving the village alive, but Lozen remembered what her brother said. “When one does not fear death, courage is easy.” Lozen could have added to that wisdom. “When one is dealing with Mexican, lying is easy.”

  She and Stands Alone were not surprised when soldiers ocked them in a storage room hazy with dried grain chaff. When the mayor came, Lozen convinced him that Geronimo was willing to talk peace. She intimated that negotiating the surrender of Geronimo would enhance his esteem. As a show of his good faith, she said, he should send Geronimo presents of corn, beans, and dried beef, blankets, cloth, and knives.

  Now Lozen and Stands Alone were leading three ponies oaded with supplies, including ten bottles of mescal. Lozen planned to throw most of those away, but she had to calculate the number of bottles she kept. If she didn’t bring any whiskey, the men would become even surlier. than they had been after their supply ran out. With too much of it, they would become dangerous to themselves and others in the band.

  When Lozen and Stands Alone passed the last raving dog, the let out a sigh that was as much contentment as relief. The children would eat.

  She couldn’t see the capitán of Fronteras’ small garrison requesting two hundred reinforcements wait for the Apache peace delegation. She couldn’t see the mayor telegraphing Arizona to tell the new General Gringo that Geronimo was tot two hundred miles south as everyone had assumed. Lozen did know that the Mexicans intended to throw a party when Geronimo’s men came to Fronteras, and then to make a game attempt to murder them. The Mexicans’ intentions didn’t matter, because Geronimo had intentions of his own. His intentions did not include talking peace with Mexicans.

  GERONIMO’S FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD NEPHEW, KANSEAH, Look sentry duty seriously. He did not sleep. He did not play cards with the one friend he had left. He peered through the army field glasses at the two men approaching across the valley floor. He gave a hawk’s whistle to signal Geronimo and the others.

  When Geronimo arr
ived with a few of his men, he took the glasses from Kanseah and studied the riders.

  “They’re the Pale Eyes’ dogs, Martine and Kayitah.” Geronimo handed glasses to the warrior named Yanozha. “I have bullets for them.”

  “Kayitah is my wife’s cousin,” said Yanozha. “If you lift your rifle, I will kill you.” He climbed onto a rock and waved at them. “Come up here,” he shouted. “No one will hurt you.”

  When Martine and Kayitah arrived, they found Lozen and the other warriors waiting to hear what they had to say.

  Kayitah began. “All of you are my friends, and some of you are my relatives. I don’t want you to get killed.”

  Geronimo interrupted. “We do the killing.”

  Kayitah held his temper. No one expected courtesy from Geronimo. “The Bluecoat named Beak waits for you at Shady Canyon near the Bavispe River. He offers you peace.”

  “We are done talking with Bluecoats.”

  “He brings you presents, too.” Kayitah knew that would bring Geronimo in, if nothing else would, but he gave them other reasons. “You people have no chance. You eat your meals running. At night you cannot rest. You listen for a stick breaking or a rock rolling down the mountain. Even the high cliff is your enemy. At night when you dodge around, you might fall off that cliff.” Then he told them one more fact that they already knew. “You have no friends in the world.”

  WHILE RAFE WAITED FOR THE COFFEE TO BOIL, THE CANYON to sprout Apaches, and hell to freeze over, he thought about the lunacy of the situation. Any sane man would have refused this assignment. Lt. Charles “Beak” Gatewood was still sane after ten years of chasing Apaches, yet here he sat waiting to make a deal with the most mendacious, murderous mortal to claim the rank of human being, or maybe brevet human being.

  Gatewood’s presence was more remarkable because he looked too spindly to stand upright in a breeze, and unlike Britt Davis, he didn’t trust Indians. In fact, Rafe thought, if Davis hadn’t quit the army to oversee a Mexican rancho, he would probably be here instead of Gatewood. Rafe would’ve enjoyed Davis’s company more. The scouts might call Gatewood Beak, but Rafe’s personal nickname for him was Bleak. He was as honest as Davis, and that counted when dealing with Apaches.

  General Miles had ordered Gatewood to take twenty-five soldiers with him. Rafe knew that was another of General Always Too Late To Fight’s bad ideas. Geronimo would never come in to talk if a lot of Bluecoats were loitering about. Rafe and Beak were relieved that the border outposts could spare only ten men. Now Rafe wished those fifteen extra soldiers had come along. He figured they would have given the Apaches someone else to shoot at.

  Rafe and Gatewood, the interpreter George Wratten, and the Apache scout Martine ate their breakfast of corn pone and coffee. Martine had returned the day before with word that Geronimo would come for talks today. Geronimo had kept Kayitah as a hostage.

  General Miles must have had a change of head about the usefulness of the Apache scouts. The rumor was that he had offered Martine and Kayitah seventy thousand dollars each if they persuaded Geronimo to surrender. That would buy a considerable amount of loyalty and enthusiasm from a white man, but it was meaningless to an Apache. All they wanted was some land on Turkey Creek near Fort Apache, where they could live with their families. Miles had promised them that, too. Hell, Miles would have promised them the moon and stars to get Geronimo in his clutches.

  Since the money didn’t mean anything to them, the scouts might be plotting an ambush with Geronimo’s crowd. Kayitah was related by marriage to one of Geronimo’s men, and he was friends with most of the rest. Maybe he hadn’t stayed behind as a hostage, but as an ally. A plot hardly seemed necessary, though. The men of the small detachment were sitting ducks.

  The morning advanced while Rafe, Beak, Wratten, and Martine played whist in the shade of the walnut tree. Gatewood had just decided Geronimo was going to stand them up when a figure rose from the grass a few hundred yards away. Another appeared to the west and one to the east.

  As the three Apaches walked toward them, two more popped up.

  “How long you reckon they been there?” asked Beak.

  “Probably since before sunup,” said Rafe.

  “Then I guess they’d’ve killed us already if they’d a mind to.”

  Rafe grunted. He was too busy counting heads to make conversation. His fingers twitched to reach for his carbine. When the last warrior appeared, Rafe totaled only fifteen plus Geronimo. Was this the fabled Chiricahua force that had beleaguered the armies of two countries for more than a year?

  Rafe did not see Lozen among them. The scouts said that the Chiricahuas kept her out of sight, assuming the Pale Eyes wouldn’t understand her unique position. They thought the Americans would judge her a loose woman. They were probably right.

  The men stood out of rifle range while Geronimo and Mischievous walked to the camp under the trees. Mischievous was as tall and handsome as his father, Cochise. He was the buffalo-nickel image of a chief. Geronimo’s face would have looked more at home on a pirate’s flag than a coin. Even in the August heat, he wore a dusty, rumpled, black coat over his breechclout, faded cotton shirt, and cartridge belt. He had knotted one red bandana around his head and another at his neck.

  Geronimo laid his Winchester on the ground, but his men kept their weapons. George Wratten stood by to interpret. Geronimo shook Gatewood’s hand. The old man’s smile reminded Rafe of the cheeky papier-mâché skulls the Mexicans made for their Day of the Dead festivals.

  “Greetings, my old friend.” Geronimo was positively jovial. The Pale Eyes were holding council with him on his ground, on his terms, and giving him presents, too. “What’s the matter with you, Long Nose? Your legs look like a coyote’s. Did you get skinny chasing us?”

  “I’m glad you’ve come.” Gatewood and Geronimo made themselves comfortable on two saddles laid across fallen logs. While George Wratten gave away the dried horse meat and other delicacies, Rafe handed out tobacco and papers.

  Soon the warriors were smoking and laughing among themselves. Rafe knew what they were thinking. They would agree to meander north in the fall, visit with their families, and live on goverment rations through the winter. In spring, when life on the reservation ceased to suit them, they would take off again.

  They’re happy as butcher’s dogs now, Rafe thought, but wait until they hear what General Miles has done with their people.

  Before Rafe, Wratten, and Gatewood left Fort Apache, Miles had told them his plan. He would inform the Apaches on the reservations that the president of the United States wanted to see them and shake their hands. Then he would load them all, even the Apache scouts and those who had cooperated through thin and thinner, onto trains bound for Florida.

  Arizona and New Mexico Territories would not be bothered by them again. Rafe was certain that Miles would not be bothered by his conscience, either. When it came to mendacity, Miles was a match for Geronimo. Gatewood was bothered by the scheme, but he knew he had to persuade Geronimo to surrender or the killing would never end.

  Gatewood shot straight to the point. “Surrender, and you will be sent to join the rest of your people in Florida.”

  “Are all of our people gone?” Geronimo looked more than stunned. He looked poleaxed.

  “Every man, woman, and child.”

  AS LOZEN WALKED BETWEEN THE TWO LINES OF JEERING Bluecoats, she wanted to cover her ears. She didn’t care about the soldiers’ taunts, but the army band’s bugle, trumpets, clarinet, fife, banjo, harmonica, drums, and tuba hurt her ears. A thousand braying mules could not have made such a racket.

  She did not know that the song was “Auld Lang Syne,” so she did not understand why the soldiers were laughing. She chanted her medicine song softly. It calmed her, but she had no faith that it would help her. Broken Foot always said that medicine worked only if one had a positive attitude. That was not possible here.

  Lozen walked with Stands Alone at the rear of the column of fifteen men. She felt the bri
ef, spider-touch of Stands Alone’s fingers on her hand, a plea for reassurance. Behind them trudged the fourteen other women and two children.

  Nantan Always Too Late To Fight had promised Martine and Kayitah land along Turkey Creek, but here they were, waiting to be loaded onto the train along with the people they had betrayed. Lozen found some satisfaction in the certainty that her people would make them suffer for their treachery.

  Lozen glanced at Geronimo’s cousin, Little Parrot. When he heard that Nantan Always Too Late to Fight had sent his family to that dark place called Florida, he had said he could not go on fighting, knowing he would never see them again. Others had defected, too. Geronimo and Lozen both knew then that this struggle was over and another one was beginning.

  At the end of the blue tunnel of soldiers chuffed the huge iron monster that would carry them in its belly to a living death. No one had been to Florida before. People thought of it as the Death Journey that spirits made, but they would be making it while they still lived.

  When fire and smoke roared from the engine, children cried and women screamed and hid their faces. Lozen flinched, but she kept walking. She chanted her Enemies-Against song.

  I am of the sun.

  I see from a height.

  I see in every direction.

  I call on earth and sky to show me.

  For the past thirty years she had expected to die in battle, and maybe she would have a chance to yet. When nantan Always Too Late To Fight said Lozen’s band would see their families, most people assumed he meant they would see each other in the Land of Death. Everyone thought the white people intended to take them only a short way in this snorting, iron wagon. Then they would kill them.