White Apache Read online

  INSTANT DECISION

  In the early stages of the encounter, Sunny Bear avoided fighting with bluecoated soldiers. Who are my people, he wondered, pistol in hand, as his horse skittered nervously. What should I do with myself?

  He knew that he looked like an Apache, and it wouldn't be surprising if somebody tried to kill him. As predicted, a bluecoated corporal appeared out of the gunsmoke and dust, riding a chestnut gelding. The corporal spotted Sunny Bear, steered toward him, and lowered his pistol for the shot.

  Sunny Bear held up both hands. “Don't shoot! I'm a United States Army officer!”

  The corporal seemed not to hear, as his horse closed with Sunny Bear. The white Apache was forced to draw his own pistol, as the corporal fired. The bullet went wild, the corporal thumbed back his hammer for another try, now ten feet away.

  “God forgive me,” whispered Sunny Bear, as he pulled the trigger. . . .

  Also by Len Levinson

  The Rat Bastards:

  Hit the Beach

  Death Squad

  River of Blood

  Meat Grinder Hill

  Down and Dirty

  Green Hell

  Too Mean to Die

  Hot Lead and Cold Steel

  Do or Die

  Kill Crazy

  Nightmare Alley

  Go For Broke

  Tough Guys Die Hard

  Suicide River

  Satan’s Cage

  Go Down Fighting

  The Pecos Kid:

  Beginner’s Luck

  The Reckoning

  Apache Moon

  Outlaw Hell

  Devil’s Creek Massacre

  Bad to the Bone

  The Apache Wars Saga:

  Desert Hawks

  War Eagles

  Savage Frontier

  Devil Dance

  Night of the Cougar

  WHITE

  APACHE

  * * *

  Volume Four of

  The Apache Wars Saga

  by

  Len Levinson

  WHITE APACHE

  Copyright © 1996 by Len Levinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-867-4

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-208-5

  Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.

  To Ruben

  One

  In the season known among the People as Earth is Reddish Brown, a raiding party of eight warriors was returning to the Mimbre Mountains of New Mexico Territory with forty-three horses and mules “found” in Chihuahua. They'd been on the dodge five days, neither sleeping nor eating, but rode firmly in their saddles, the fiercest of the renegade Nednai and Bedonko Apache bands, their exploits bringing food, weapons, clothing, and other booty into camp.

  Each fighter carried water in the intestine of a deer, plus a robe tied behind his saddle, while the bluecoat army traveled with wagons, tents, and frying pans. Nonetheless, the warriors remained alert, making sure that bluecoat soldiers weren't creeping up.

  The bravest of warriors had been selected war chief, and he was Juh, twenty-nine years old, heavily muscled, with a deep chest and thick thighs. Riding in advance of the others, he searched mesquite trees and aloe vera bushes for bluecoat soldiers, his leather war cap adorned with ancient mystical symbols of the People, his face square, solid, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. No expression was manifest on his lips, and one might consider such a warrior like iron, but beneath his stalwart facade, Juh lived his own private hell.

  What can a warrior expect with two wives? He'd stepped into the flames when he'd married Ish-keh, daughter of Chief Mahlko, after his first wife, dear Jocita, had been unable to bear children. He, an up-and-coming warrior, had needed sons, and he'd hoped Jocita would understand, but she had rebuffed him ever since, and then became pregnant secretly by a bluecoat war chief six harvests ago during the big powwow at the Santa Rita Copper Mines, and worst of all, subsequently gave birth to the bluecoat's son.

  The disgrace was more than Juh could bear, but he pretended the boy was his, the light skin and hair coloring considered marks of distinction from the mountain spirits. No one knew the truth except Juh and Jocita, but now Juh had been cursed anew, for the same damned bluecoat war chief was back in camp, near Jocita, while Juh gathered sustenance for the People, on the lookout for bluecoat soldiers.

  The warriors were prepared to fight instantaneously with bows, arrows, knives, or anything that came to hand, while the White Eyes army was effective only when surprising the People, such as in the season known as Little Eagles, when bluecoat soldiers had stumbled upon an unprotected encampment in the Mogollon Mountains, massacring women and children. Jocita nearly had been killed, and still was confined to her wickiup, treated by Nana, the di-yin medicine man, to whom Juh had given many horses. Unfortunately, it was the very same Pindah soldier who'd impregnated her, who'd also saved her life, and now he too lay in a wickiup, shot in the back by his own men. Juh could not imagine a worse fate than losing Jocita to another man, and he would not hesitate to kill any thief who dared steal his first love.

  A speck on the horizon disturbed Juh's doleful reflections, and it was his cousin Geronimo from the Bedonko tribe, one harvest older than Juh, riding the point. Evidently, Geronimo had seen trouble, so the warriors checked their harnesses and weapons. As Geronimo drew closer, Juh almost wished it was the Pindah-lickoyee White Eyes army, so frustrated was he concerning Jocita. Geronimo pulled back his reins, and his horse frothed as it shook its great head from side to side. “There is a lone Pindah hunter straight ahead,” reported Geronimo. “He must be courageous or very foolish, but he carries a new peshegar, and his horse is splendid.”

  Peshegar was a rifle, and Juh had the right and indeed obligation to exact revenge for the Mogollon massacre. He turned to Loco. “You are in charge until I return.”

  Henry Linn Dodge crawled on his belly, cradling his new Sharps breech-loading rifle in his arms. Official U.S. agent to the Navahos, he never dreamed an Indian might harm him, because he fought for their rights at councils, and even had married a Navaho woman.

  Forty-three years old, dressed like a cowboy, Henry Linn Dodge was popular among Navahos, but considered eccentric by whites, his affluent family in the States scandalized by his Indian wife. Many friends had warned him against hunting alone, but he did not accept advice readily; he marched to his own drum.

  He spotted movement in the chaparral ahead, shouldered his rifle, then lined up the iron sights on a spectacular white-tailed deer. With a smile he squeezed the trigger, an image of sliced venison coming to mind, as something sharp pierced his left kidney. He couldn't suppress the scream of rage and pain erupting from his lips; then another arrow sliced through his aorta. And thus died Henry Linn Dodge, agent to the Navahos, on November 16, 1856.

  In the Mimbreno sweat lodge Nana, the di-yin medicine man, threw a cup of water onto hot rocks. A cloud of blue steam arose, and he breathed deeply its healthful properties. Fifty-two harvests old, diminutive, with the face of a wrinkled imp, he gazed at two patients lying naked before him, as pots filled with boiling plants, herbs, and powdered rocks bubbled atop the fire. With a large wooden spoon he lifted a cluster of leaves from a pot, letting its fragrance fill the sweat lodge, then lowered medicine onto the angry red mouth in the middle of Jocita's chest, where she'd been struck with a bullet. He'd previously dug it out and her skin knitted together firmly, but she'd become emaciated, cheekbones gaunt. What secrets lurk within that pretty head of yours? wondered Nana.

  He contemplated Jocita's long shapely limbs, glistening b
lack hair, and mysterious lips. But Nana's passion had diminished greatly in recent years, and now he was an ascetic, devoting himself to healing and magic. Certain plant secretions slowed the heart and permitted power to be gathered where needed, such as the gash in Jocita's chest.

  Occasionally, a warrior woman would arise among the People, and Jocita was one of these, who fought alongside the men, a skilled rider and lethal killer with bow and arrow, not to mention knife and lance. She had gone on many raids, fought countless battles, and finally the inevitable had occurred in the Mogollon Mountains. But the life force was strong within her, Nana directing it where most needed.

  Then Nana turned to the bluecoat war chief, also naked, a tall, powerfully built man with an unsightly blond beard, who had saved Jocita in the press of the Mogollon battle and nearly been killed by his own soldiers for his efforts. The Pindah was no stranger, for Nana had met him six harvests ago at the Santa Rita Copper Mines, when both sides moved together and attempted unsuccessfully to make peace. Shortly thereafter, Jocita had given birth to a light-skinned son, and sometimes Nana wondered silently if the Pindah was his father. He also wondered how much Juh suspected, and whether Juh would kill the patient before he was cured, or wait until he could defend himself. Am I saving this Pindah war chief for nothing? wondered Nana.

  He applied boiled leaves to the Pindah's back and sang a restorative song as steam billowed within the sweat lodge, firelight flickering on woven grass walls.

  At Fort Craig the recently widowed, pregnant Mrs. Clarissa Barrington sat in her parlor, serenaded by a guitar player hired by her maid, chubby, short Rosita Gaspar. Music soothed Clarissa's troubled heart, hands folded upon her enormous stomach, feet extended and resting upon a hassock.

  Twenty-one years old, Clarissa was of the New York City Rowlands, and her small rundown shack next to a marsh at the edge of a desert was not the comfort to which she'd become accustomed. But she'd fallen in love with a divorced army officer twelve years older than she, married him two years ago, and now Nathanial had been killed in action against the Apache, his body never recovered. Often she wished she and Nathanial had remained in Europe, where they'd honeymooned, but instead they'd headed for New Mexico Territory. He'd resumed his military career, and she'd become a soldier's wife, believing the odds were against anything untoward happening to her husband. Unfortunately, he'd been killed shortly after they'd arrived at Fort Craig, and then she discovered she was pregnant, unable to travel.

  In her grief she turned to music for solace. She'd been trained as a pianist, and Nathanial had bought two fine Steinways in New York City, shipping them to Fort Craig on different days, but neither had arrived, perhaps because Indians had demolished the wagon trains. Then she'd studied the guitar, but her belly had become too large to accommodate the bulky instrument. She felt heavy, puffy, and ugly. Women frequently perished during childbirth, and babies commonly were born dead. She felt alone, desolate, separated from family and friends in Manhattan.

  She missed Nathanial desperately and often recalled when they'd walked hand in hand in Paris's Bois de Boulogne and confessed their deepest thoughts. Or the night in Rome, stumbling about the ruins of the Colosseum, pretending to converse with Caesar, Cicero, and Marc Antony.

  In the clarity that only music provided, the pregnant widow knew her happiest moments had been spent with Nathanial, who'd been affectionate and attentive to her needs. If only . . . but no prayer could bring him back, and she must keep going for the sake of her soon-to-be-born child.

  A knock at the door startled Clarissa. Rosita opened it, then returned, a worried expression on her face. “Colonel Chandler and his wife are here to see you, senora.”

  It was an extraordinary circumstance for the commanding officer and his wife to pay an unscheduled visit, but Clarissa had learned from an early age to maintain herself prepared for guests. She didn't bother to arise as Colonel and Libbie Chandler entered the parlor, uncertain smiles on their faces.

  “I've got something for you, Clarissa,” said Colonel Chandler gently, attired in his blue jacket with gold shoulder straps, the orange bandanna of the First Dragoons around his neck. Tall, fifty years old, he carried a sheet of paper and a small box. “I'm pleased to notify you that Nathanial has been promoted posthumously to captain.”

  Tears filled Clarissa's eyes, as she read the document. For conspicuous gallantry under fire, Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington is herewith awarded the permanent commission of captain of Dragoons . . .

  “A promotion can't bring him back,” Colonel Chandler explained, “but at least the army has recognized his ability. He was a helluva soldier—let me tell you.”

  Clarissa opened the box, and inside were a captain's shoulder straps, two silver bars each. Clarissa struggled to prevent herself from blubbering, for Nathanial had wanted so much to make captain, after twelve years as a lieutenant. Libbie Chandler, gray-haired and nearly as tall as her husband, squeezed Clarissa's hand. “You poor dear. Why, you're hardly grown, and so burdened with tragedy.”

  Clarissa tried to smile bravely, but she felt a wrench in her belly, and her skirt was becoming wet. Confused, she dropped the citation and shoulder straps, as the guitarist continued to play softly on the other side of the room.

  “Call the doctor,” Libbie Chandler ordered her husband, for she was the true commanding officer of Fort Craig. “And hurry.”

  The colonel fled out the door as Libbie and Rosita helped Clarissa to the bedroom. Clarissa was assaulted by horrific pain, as if her pelvis were torn apart. Covered with perspiration, she grit her teeth as Rosita ran to the kitchen to boil water, and the guitarist stood outside the door, contributing fandango tunes to the birth of the Americano child.

  The doctor arrived on the run, carrying his black satchel full of implements, and it wasn't long before the scream of an infant female pierced the cruel Apache night. The guitarist smiled as he strummed an Andalusian crescendo. Welcome to the world, chiquita.

  Two

  On a remote plateau deep in the Mimbreno Mountains, huts of grass, branches, and skins were strewn about like monster beetles, and a faint sliver of orange glowed on the horizon. Women lit breakfast fires, and warriors stirred on their brush and grass beds.

  Among the warriors in camp that morning was the great Mangas Coloradas, chief of the Mimbrenos, in addition to subchiefs Cuchillo Negro and Delgadito, plus other prominent fighters such as Victorio, Loco, Chatto, and Barbonsito, beginning a new day in the land given them by the Lifegiver, their god.

  One camp dog, a yellow mongrel with the face of a terrier mated to a spaniel, barked beside a wickiup where no woman prepared breakfast. The dog knew someone special lay inside, and he was saying good morning in his doggy manner. He hoped someone would throw him a bone, but instead a head appeared at the entrance of another wickiup, and the warrior Cautivo threw a rock at him, striking the back of his thigh. The dog yelped in disgrace as he raced into the chaparral.

  Barking awakened Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington, and at first the West Point officer didn't know where he was. It felt as though he'd melted into the ground, having fallen out and into consciousness many times during his infirmity. He recalled the French philosopher Descartes, whom he'd studied during his student days. I think, therefore the Apaches haven't killed me. . . yet.

  He knew his age, rank, and unit, and that his wife resided at Fort Craig. He recalled his mother, brothers, friends, and the moment he'd been shot in the back, probably by one of his own men. I'm a prisoner of the Apaches, he realized.

  He reflected on the events that had led him to his predicament and realized that lust had done him in yet again. He'd met the Apache warrior woman Jocita in ‘51 at the Santa Rita Copper Mines, and had spent one glorious hour alone with her on the desert. Then the powwow had broken apart, due to mutual suspicion, and he'd never seen her again until the fight in the Mogollon Mountains, when he'd rescued her from his own soldiers. In retrospect, he wondered why in hell he'd committed such a rash act,
but a strange primordial urge had propelled him onward, into the unknown.

  Something rustled at the entrance of the wickiup, then Nana, the medicine man, appeared, carrying a steaming bowl of horse meat stewed with vegetables, herbs, and medicinal substances. “Eat,” he said.

  Nathanial let Nana raise his head and drop food into his mouth, everything finely chopped because he could barely chew. The liquid trickled down his throat, and before he could say thank you, another spoonful was offered. Nana sang holy songs as he rocked Nathanial's head from side to side.

  I am feeding you new life—

  It will make you strong—

  You shall live a long time.

  The medicine man's gravelly voice sent shivers up Nathanial's spine. Perhaps they're fattening me for the kill, he speculated, for he'd seen results of Apache massacres. If ever I recover from this damned bullet, I'll try to escape.

  After the meal Nana asked in Spanish, “How do you feel?”

  Nathanial spoke Spanish fairly well, because his first wife had been Mexican. "Mejor,” he replied. Better.

  “There were times I thought you would not survive, Pindah soldier, but now it appears you are on your way back. In case you are wondering, Jocita is alive as well, becoming stronger every day. You have saved her life, and we are very grateful. That is why you have not been killed long ago.”

  Nana called a command, and two sleepy apprentice medicine men appeared at the entrance to the wickiup. Nathanial felt himself cracking apart as they lifted him, then carried him outside and lowered him upon a bed of skins.

  Nathanial examined women stirring pots, children playing, and the camp dogs. Only a few warriors could be seen on their way to the latrine or the stream where they washed. The atmosphere appeared alien to the native New Yorker, like an asteroid circling the moon. A warrior examined him curiously, and Nathanial realized that an American probably appeared as freakish to the Apaches as they did to him.