Apache Moon Read online

  The animal flap was thrust to the side, and Phyllis crawled into the wickiup. Her clothing had become shredded like his, and her legs could be seen through tears in her jeans. Her skin was deeply tanned, she wore an Apache headband and looked tawny wild. “I keep telling you that I want to leave,” she began, “and you keep putting me off. We’ve been with the Apaches for nearly a month, and I think it’s time that we set a date for hitting the trail. We’re Americans—remember?”

  “But I love this life, and you’ve never looked better. C’mere.”

  She pushed him away. “If you loved me, you’d take me out of here.”

  Leaving had become her favorite subject, and she sang the same tune over and over. “I guess the work is too hard for you.”

  “It goes deeper than work. You’re seeing these Apaches as something that they’re not. Don’t forget that war and killing is their way of life, and they can be extremely brutal. Yesterday I saw a woman with her nose cut off because she was unfaithful to her husband. Huera told me that if a woman has twins, her husband has to kill one of them because that’s what their beautiful holy lifeway commands them to do.”

  “I never said they were angels, but things aren’t so great in the White Eyes world either. I’ve read in newspapers that babies are killed by rats in big cities, or poisoned with milk from cows that’re fed garbage. What’s worse?”

  She looked him in the eye. “If I had twins, would you kill one of them?”

  Duane didn’t like the tone of her voice. His beautiful desert princess was becoming a nag, and it wasn’t so long ago that she’d loved him without question. “I could never kill my twin son or daughter, and I certainly sympathize with any woman who had her nose cut off, but I’m learning interesting new things from the Apaches, I feel better than ever, and tomorrow Cucharo is taking me into the mountains for a few days of special teaching.”

  Phyllis scowled as she sensed another betrayal. “In other words, our stay with the Apaches has just been extended. Sometimes I think you love that old man more than me. Well, I’m an American, and I want to get the hell out of here!”

  “Perhaps you can go home without me, and I’ll follow when things settle down.”

  “Maybe I should’ve left you tied to that wheel. Your mind is open to every stupid idea that comes along. I’m afraid that something terrible will happen if we stay here. What if the chief dies? Apaches aren’t the best hosts in the world for White Eyes.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Nothing’s going to happen because that old chief is probably healthier than we. I’ll bet we’re safer here than at the Bar T.”

  She gazed meaningfully into his eyes. “Just remember one thing, Duane. When the trouble starts, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  It was pitch-black in the desert as clouds obscured the moon and stars. The soldiers huddled around their bonfire, chewing on a family of javelinas that they’d shot before the sun went down. Tents were pitched and horses tethered to the picket line, guarded by four troopers at each corner of the compass.

  Lieutenant Dawes sat by himself, studying his map in the light of the fire. He knew that he was somewhere south of the Pecos, deep in Apache territory, and his men were rebellious.

  They were tired of living in the open, worried constantly about the next water hole. But Lieutenant Dawes was drawing a map based on his observations, with special marks for water holes. He’d send a copy to Colonel MacKenzie at Fort Richardson, to show what an intelligent and diligent officer he was. Perhaps I should write about local flora and fauna for scientific journals. A desert isn’t just sand but a symphony of life and colors. Every day he saw more smoke signals on the mountaintops as his movements were transmitted from tribe to tribe.

  The Apaches knew where he was, but he didn’t know where they were. Lieutenant Dawes gnawed on a chunk of wild pig as he conceived new tactics for fighting Apaches. Special detachments would be trained to live like Indians in small roving bands. Their job would be to hunt redskins relentlessly and force them out of Texas. Then the land could be opened for commerce and towns would grow around water holes that now sit alone in the desert.

  Land in southwest Texas is cheap, Lieutenant Dawes speculated, but if the Apaches were driven out, it would rise in value. Fortunes are being made every day in the new postwar America, and if I plan now, I can be a rich man someday. He’d already inherited a substantial sum from his grandfather, who’d been a banker, and it was being invested in stocks and bonds by a Wall Street brokerage firm. But land is the best investment of all, he figured. One day Texas will be covered with cattle, cities, and roads. Nothing can stop America now.

  He heard footsteps as Sergeant Mahoney approached, his rusty beard dotted with bits of wild pig. Mahoney didn’t bother saluting as he dropped to one knee beside Lieutenant Dawes. “The men told me to tell you that they want to return to camp, sir.”

  Lieutenant Dawes folded the map. “I don’t care what they want. They will obey my lawful orders.”

  Sergeant Mahoney leaned closer and said in a low voice, “Sir, I don’t think you know what’s a-goin’ on here. They’re a-gittin’ mad as hornets, and they all got guns.”

  “America wouldn’t have much of an army if soldiers told their officers what to do.”

  “There’s a time to go by the book, and a time to use some common sense, sir. You been in the sun too long.”

  Lieutenant Dawes narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying that I’ve gone loco?”

  “I’ve been a soldier fer eighteen years, and I ain’t never seen a scout like this. But I warned you about the men, and that’s the best I can do. From now on, I ain’t responsible.”

  It was midnight when Marshal Stowe returned semi-inebriated to his hotel. The lobby was bathed in the golden effulgence of oil lamps, illuminating the clerk and a few drunks passed out on sofas and chairs. The lawman shambled toward the clerk, rested his elbow on the counter, and said in a low voice, “I’m ready for one of the gals.”

  “I’ll send her to your room, Marshal.”

  “Want to pick her myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “Right this way.”

  The clerk led him down a corridor, across a hall, and to a dark door without a number. The clerk knocked, the door opened, and a woman with a garishly painted face stood in the crack.

  “A customer,” the clerk said.

  The door opened wide, and the woman grabbed Marshal Stowe’s sleeve. “Come on in, cowboy. Don’t be afraid.”

  Then she saw the tin badge, and her confidence faltered. Marshal Stowe figured that she’d probably spent time behind bars during her career, but he smiled genially as he followed her into a crowd of women drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and waiting for the next customer. Some were American, others Mexican, with a few in between.

  “Which one you want?” the madam asked.

  “I like to take my time.”

  “Juanita, get the marshal a glass of whiskey.”

  The marshal dropped into a chair and felt suddenly dispirited. Why’m I always sleeping with whores? he asked himself. He recalled lovely, graceful Vanessa Dawes, practically a different species from the women before him.

  They looked as if life had used them hard, and they used it in the same way. They earned their daily bread selling their bodies to the highest bidder, and when they grew too old to attract customers, they begged on the streets. Disease was the plague of their lives, and frequently they were shot or knifed by irate customers. It was difficult for the marshal to feel romantic, but he considered abstinence unhealthy.

  So he looked for one who wasn’t too fat, skinny, or old, without a broken nose, and not completely toothless. He noticed such a whore sitting in the corner, somehow sad beneath her thick layers of cosmetics. He raised his finger and pointed. “Her.”

  “That is Teresa. You have made a wise choice, Marshal. Go to your room, and she will be right there.”

  Marshal Stowe clomped down the maze of corridors and became disoriented midway
. Finally, after walking into a few walls, he arrived at his door, drew his gun, listened, and then stepped into the small enclosed space. He searched for a bushwhacker beneath the bed, locked the door, took off his hat, lay in bed, and closed his eyes. The Remington remained in his right hand.

  He thought of the hunchback midget half-breed Miguelito. If the freak could locate Phyllis Thornton—what a bonanza. It would be nice to see Trafalgar Square at dawn, or watch the sun set over the white cliffs of Folkestone. All my dreams will come true if I can find Phyllis Thornton.

  But he didn’t trust Miguelito. The half-breed had shifty eyes, and what could you say about a man who sold whiskey and guns to the Apaches? I shouldn’t have anything to do with people like that, the lawman told himself, but it’s the only way to get to England.

  He didn’t dare let his guard down with Miguelito because the half-breed would betray him for horses, guns, and the shirt on his back. But if Miguelito can find Phyllis Thornton, I’ll play his game. Life’s greatest blessings never come easy.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Teresa entered the room, fluttering her eyelashes ridiculously, evidently inexperienced at her work, but it didn’t matter to the lonely lawman. “Wash that shit off your face,” he ordered. “Then take off your clothes and come to bed.”

  CHAPTER 6

  DUANE COULDN’T SLEEP MUCH THAT night as he anticipated his trip to the desert with Cucharo. It would be for an indefinite period, and they’d bring weapons but no food or water. Cucharo had implied that something significant would be imparted, and Duane wondered what it possibly could be. He hadn’t told Phyllis the full story because she’d spoil everything with another tantrum about Apache life. His sweet little Texas flower was becoming a double-barreled shrew.

  He gazed at her profile outlined by moonlight slanting through the hole in the roof. Her beauty bloomed more every day as her body toughened and firmed. But wickiup life didn’t interest her because she’d been princess of the Bar T. Her main tasks had been office work, and horseback courier between her father and cowboys riding the range. Working animal skins, digging mescal, and gathering prickly pear fruit wasn’t her notion of gracious living. She was a daughter of Texas, not an Apache squaw.

  The sky became lighter as Duane dressed silently in the darkness, tied his holster to his leg, and stuffed his pockets full of bullets. A man could run into anything on the desert, including man-eating bears, Apache renegades, or rattlesnakes that you wouldn’t notice until they sank their fangs into your leg.

  Duane pecked his beloved wife-to-be lightly on the cheek, for he didn’t want to awaken her and start another fight. Then he put on his cowboy hat, crawled out of his home, and silently made his way toward Cucharo’s wickiup. The camp appeared deserted, but he knew that guards were about, watching for enemies in all approaches to the mountaintop. Apaches were the most suspicious and watchful people Duane had ever known. They see you, but you never see them.

  He came to Cucharo’s tent, sat cross-legged in front of the door, and waited for his master to appear. He had a mild headache from inadequate sleep, his stomach was an empty cavern, and he dozed as the leather door twitched. Cucharo poked his nose out, and Duane jumped to his feet, watching his mentor sniff the air, as if the old di-yin could divine truth from the smell of the desert. “Follow me,” the medicine man croaked.

  They headed for the valley, and neither spoke as dawn broadened on the horizon. Cucharo appeared to be heading toward one of the taller mountains, its summit a cap of purple rock. The old di-yin ascended the foothills swiftly and Duane followed close at his heels. A buzzard sat on the branch of a juniper tree, watching them hungrily. They climbed higher, and Duane viewed huge tracts of desert spread beneath him, with smoke signals in the distance. Cirrus clouds streaked the sky, and a river wound like a gleaming silver snake near the horizon. It was shortly before noon when they reached the summit.

  “Sit,” said Cucharo.

  Duane dropped to a cross-legged position on top of the mountain. He could make out settlements, cattle, and buildings like dots in the distant wastes. Cucharo sat opposite him, examined his face, and said, “You think I have brought you here to teach you important things, but only Yusn can teach them. This mountain is a place of power, and I will leave you here. If you are smart, you will learn. If you are dumb, you will die. Give me your gun.”

  “What do you want my gun for?”

  “You must be without any weapons except your knife.”

  Duane wondered if it was an Apache trick. Is Cucharo trying to steal my gun?

  “If I wanted to steal it,” Cucharo replied wearily, “I could’ve done so long ago.”

  “Can you read my mind?”

  “If you do not trust me, I do not care. We can go back to the camp, and you can leave with your woman. Apache warriors will escort you to the Mexican border, and you will be free.”

  Duane wanted to continue his Apache education, as curiosity outweighed caution yet again. He unstrapped his gun belt and passed it to Cucharo, who said, “I am going to leave you now, and we may not see each other again for a long time. Open your heart to Yusn, and you will become a warrior.” Cucharo looked over Duane’s shoulder. “Is that a snake?”

  Duane pulled his knife from the scabbard in back of his belt, but there was no snake. He turned toward Cucharo, but the medicine man had disappeared. The mountaintop was barren, a gust of wind blew over the crest, and Duane felt vulnerable without his gun. Incredible distances stretched before him, and an eagle flew high in the sky.

  He paced back and forth, wondering what to do. The sun hammered him. His clothes became soaked with perspiration, his hat drooped over his ears, and his mouth went dry. He walked down the mountain to the line where vegetation began, then selected the fattest barrel cactus available, drew his knife, and sliced off the top. He cut out chunks of wet pulp, sat beside the cactus, and chewed. The sweet sap rolled over his tongue as he spotted mescal plants nearby. At least I won’t starve, he said to himself optimistically.

  He’d never been alone in the desert and felt jittery. He pulled his knife out of its scabbard and ran his finger along the ten-inch blade. It was sharp, but he wished it were sharper. The wood handle was attached with rivets and had seen much use.

  He heard a sound behind him and spun around. The blank desert looked back at him. He wondered whether Apache renegades were sneaking up on him, to cut off his head. Wild animals lived in the area, and he didn’t want to step on a sleeping poisonous spider. Maybe I should’ve listened to Phyllis and gone to Mexico.

  The desert was a brilliantly colored panorama, while the air filled with the perfume of flowers. This place was here long before I arrived in the world and will be here long after I’m gone, he realized. He sat beside the barrel cactus, chewed pulp, and gazed at the lowlands. He’d read that southwest Texas had once been a vast sea and imagined monster fishes hurtling through endless centuries, while he was a mere speck in the flow of time.

  He glanced behind him, to make sure no hungry sharp-toothed creatures were sneaking up on him. But no one was there, and he felt strangely isolated from the rest of humanity. There was nothing to do, and he hadn’t slept well the previous night. He stretched out on the ground, covered his face with his hat, placed his head on the palms of his hands, and closed his eyes. He heard the rush of wind and soon fell into deep slumber.

  Miguelito sat on his saddle, stirrups adjusted for his short legs, as he rode through a forest of cottonwood trees. He examined them carefully, to make sure they concealed no robbers. Miguelito sometimes carried substantial money and was a tempting target. But he was part Apache, and his wariness never flagged.

  He was born of a Mexican mother captured by Apaches, while his father had been a prominent warrior. Miguelito was raised by Apaches until he was twelve, when he and his mother were repatriated by the Mexican army.

  The Mexicans treated him like an oddity; he grew up with virtually no fr
iends, and as soon as he was old enough, he returned to the Apaches. But he didn’t feel at home among them either, because he’d picked up too many White Eyes habits. So he became the ideal middle man and kept his money buried in an iron box in a secret desert spot. Someday he planned to do something with it but didn’t know quite what.

  A raspberry bush moved at the side of the trail, and an Apache guard arose behind it. “Miguelito, have you brought firewater?”

  “Not today, but maybe next time.”

  The warrior waved him onward, for Miguelito was every Apache’s friend and they treated him like a noble emissary from the outer world. He dismounted at the beginning of the narrow defile and proceeded to climb its sharp-toothed path. He knew that they’d be eager to see him, for he was their main link with the cornucopia of goods produced by the White Eyes.

  It was a tough climb, but he soon came to the top of the mountain. He’d visited three other camps since speaking with the marshal, but hadn’t found the American girl yet. He approached the gathering of wickiups. Smoke arose from fires, and children chased each other through the alleys. A baby bawled her eyes out in a cradleboard hanging from a bush but was ignored because Apaches believed that babies should never be coddled.

  Children gathered on both sides of Miguelito, and he tossed them rock candy. Ahead, a group of women dug a hole for roasting mescal, and poker-faced Miguelito observed their hindquarters as they scooped dirt out of the earth with their hands. Then his eyes widened at the sight of a woman in American cowboy clothes. Her skin was deeply tanned, but her facial characteristics were distinctly American. That’s her! he thought jubilantly. He steered his horse toward the chief’s wickiup as a smile spread over his face. It looks like I’ve just made twenty dollars. He dismounted in front of the chiefs wickiup, reached into a saddlebag, and pulled out a bottle of white lightning.