Warpath Read online

  “I don’t need you today,” Samantha said. “Go home.”

  “You are not well, señora?”

  “No, I am not well.”

  “I can make you better, maybe.”

  “Just go away please. I’ll pay you for the food.”

  Samantha arose and walked to the bedroom to get the money, and Carmen saw the neck of the bottle poking out of the cushions on the sofa. Samantha returned a few moments later and dropped some coins in Carmen’s outstretched hand. Carmen smelled the whiskey on Samantha’s breath.

  “Señora, I am worry about you.”

  “Worry about yourself and leave me alone,” Samantha replied, slamming the door in her face.

  Samantha returned to the sofa and collapsed upon it, pulling out the bottle of whiskey and removing the cork.

  I don’t have anything to live for, she thought. I might as well become a drunk like everybody else around here.

  Near noon, Lobo raised his hand in the air. Behind him, Juanita and John Stone pulled back on the reins of their horses. They were surrounded by trees, cactuses, and thick underbrush on a vast plateau with a single tall butte in the distance.

  Lobo slung his canteen over his shoulders and climbed down from his horse, then walked back to Juanita and Stone.

  “Give me your canteens,” he said. “I will go for water.”

  “Why cannot we go too?” Juanita said, perspiration covering her forehead and cheeks. “I would like to take a wash.”

  “Foolish woman,” Lobo replied. “You must stay away from water holes. This is the country of my people. Do you want to die today?”

  Juanita tossed him her canteen. Stone drank deeply from his, then handed it to Lobo.

  “You two dismount and have a rest,” Lobo said. “I will be back soon.”

  Lobo took two steps backward, turned around, and disappeared into the chaparral. Stone climbed down from his horse and sat in the shade of a cotton wood tree. Juanita joined him, and Stone rolled a cigarette.

  “How is your wound?” Juanita asked.

  “Much better. Lobo is the best doctor I ever had.”

  Juanita spat into the sand. “You watch out for him, grin-go.”

  “He saved my life. I don’t think he means us any harm.”

  “Maybe he saved your life so he can kill you himself some other time. And me too. Maybe he is going for his Indian friends right now.” She looked from side to side suspiciously. “I do not like it here.”

  “Lobo will be back soon. We won’t be here long.” Stone placed his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. We’ll be in Tucson tomorrow maybe, and you’ll be singing in the best saloon in town.”

  “Nothing good ever happens to me,” she said. “I am a very unlucky person.”

  “It does no good to remember bad things.”

  “I cannot forget them. If I told you what Rodrigo do to me, when I was only a girl, you would be sick.”

  “You have to look forward to the future, not the past.”

  “I wish Rodrigo was still alive,” she said, “so you could kill him again.”

  “Maybe next time he’d kill me.”

  “I do not think so, gringo. You are a good fighter, for a gringo. I wonder how you would do against the Indian.”

  “Lobo and I are friends,” Stone said. “We aren’t going to fight each other.”

  “It is a miracle that you have come this far in life, gringo. I guess it is because you are a good fighter, that you have come so far. Otherwise you would have been in the ground long ago.”

  As Stone and Juanita spoke softly, Lobo crawled toward the water hole, the three canteens slung over his shoulder. Every few feet he paused and listened, then resumed his movement.

  He knew that the water hole was used regularly by his people, and didn’t want to take the chance of being seen. The only thing to do was advance silently, fill the canteens quickly, and leave rapidly, covering his tracks.

  He thought of John Stone and the Mexican woman, back in the chaparral, and how strange it was that he was helping them. Just a few years ago he would’ve killed them both on sight, if he saw them on the desert, but that had been before he fought with Coyotero and was banished from the tribe.

  Lobo hated Coyotero with all his heart. Coyotero had been the only man who’d ever defeated him in a fight, and Lobo had replayed the fight over and over in his mind ever since, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, so he’d never do it again.

  He still didn’t know what it was. Maybe Coyotero had been faster, or smarter, or maybe the mountain spirits had smiled on Coyotero that day, instead of him. It was difficult to see how that could happen, because Coyotero wasn’t respectful of the mountain spirits, whereas Lobo always had prayed regularly and participated fully in all the religious rites and observances.

  There was a commotion in the bushes in front of Lobo. Wings flapped, followed by a screeching sound, and a large owl launched itself into the air, flying past Lobo.

  Lobo went pale with fear. Apaches believed owls were the ghosts of people who’d been wicked in life and continued doing evil after death. When an owl flew past an Apache, it was a sign that someone was going to die.

  Lobo’s heart pounded, and he fought the rising panic. Who was going to die? he wondered. Was it John Stone, the Mexican woman, or Lobo?

  Lobo wished he could go to Red Feather for help, but didn’t know where Red Feather was, and couldn’t return to the camp anyway. Only a medicine man could fight the Owl Sickness.

  Lobo knew he had to keep going, and he couldn’t let John Stone and the Mexican woman know what he’d seen. Somehow he had to be a warrior until the end, when he rode the Ghost Pony.

  The world had become a different place for Lobo. A few minutes ago he had been confident and strong, whereas now he was plagued with doubt and felt weakened. The Owl Sickness was upon him.

  Carmen the maid hesitated before the home where Colonel Braddock lived with his wife. She was afraid she might get in trouble for what she was going to do. A little voice in her head told her to turn around and go back to Santa Maria del Pueblo and forget about what she’d seen, but something made her stay. The truth was she was more afraid of the colonel’s wife than she was of the voice in her head.

  She knocked on the door. A few seconds later it was opened by Luisa, the Braddocks’ maid.

  “I would like to speak with Mrs. Braddock, please,” Carmen said haltingly. “I think it is very important.”

  Luisa looked at her coldly, then asked her to enter the vestibule. Carmen stood nervously beside a bright-colored Navaho Indian blanket hung on the wall for decoration. A few minutes later Mrs. Braddock appeared, a tall gray-haired woman wearing a high-necked white blouse and a long white skirt.

  “You wanted to see me?” Mrs. Braddock asked with a smile.

  Carmen curtsied and bowed her head. “Once you told me, señora, that if I ever had any problemas, or saw anything bad, I should come to you first, do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember. Come with me, please. Luisa, bring us some tea.”

  Mrs. Braddock took Carmen’s hand and led her across the living room and down a corridor to a small library furnished with a desk and a few chairs.

  Both of the women sat. Carmen looked at all the books and felt intimidated, because she was illiterate and feared the knowledge that might be in the books, knowledge that could be used against her.

  Mrs. Braddock patted her hand. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

  Carmen placed one hand on top of the other and squeezed her hands together. “I hope there will be no problemas, señora.”

  “I can’t promise you there will be no problemas. There are always problemas in this world. But the problemas may be worse if you don’t tell me immediately what’s on your mind.”

  “It is Mrs. Lowell,” Carmen said. “She is mucho sick.” Carmen pointed to her right temple. “Here, in the cabeza. She is drinking whiskey todos los dias. She fight with her husband. Today she t
ell me to go away. She is drinking right now in the dark like a borracha. I think there will be many problemas. That is what I have come to tell you.”

  Mrs. Braddock sat straight in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. “Leave everything to me,” she said. “I’ll take care of Mrs. Lowell.”

  Miguel was in a rotten mood, and it was getting worse every moment. The sun was unusually hot and Miguel felt as though he was a tortilla in an oven.

  He was angry at Antonio for bringing them out on the desert on such a hot day when they could be back in the cave drinking and smoking and having fun with the women. Maybe they even could’ve roasted a wild pig.

  Miguel was the oldest of all the bandits, and didn’t have the energy he used to have. The heat bothered him more than ever. He wished he had sons who could take care of him, but he had no children at all. Women who’d been with him had gone with other men afterward and had children from them, so he knew something was wrong in his cojones. He was not a complete man, somehow. Instead of enjoying his old age, he was riding on the desert in the sun.

  He saw movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head abruptly in that direction. In the far distance, across a vast stretch of desert, he saw three Apache warriors riding in a direction parallel to the one he and the others were on, but the Apaches didn’t appear to notice him.

  Miguel dismounted quickly, turned around, and motioned to the others. They climbed down from their horses, and he ran back to them, holding his sombrero on his head so it wouldn’t fall off.

  “What is wrong?” Antonio asked.

  Miguel pointed. “Apaches. Three of them. Headed that way. I don’t think they saw us, but maybe they did.”

  Antonio thought it over. “We’ll wait here a little while until they’re gone, and then move out again.”

  “No, Antonio,” Miguel replied. “We should not wait here, because if they saw us, they will know where to find us. We must wait someplace else.”

  Miguel had been traversing the desert all his life and knew the region fairly well. He looked around and saw mountains not far to the south. “There,” he said, pointing, “but we must go on foot because it will be more difficult for the Apaches to see us that way.”

  “We will follow you,” Antonio said.

  Miguel held his horse by the bridle and led him into the thick chaparral. The others followed, and Antonio glanced furtively behind him, hoping the Apaches hadn’t seen them.

  Salty perspiration dripped from Lieutenant Lowell’s mustache to his lips, and his shirt was plastered to his skin. Behind him he heard the trudging of horses’ hooves and the rattling of cavalry equipment. The desert was unbearably hot, and buzzards circled in the sky overhead.

  Lieutenant Lowell knew he had to set the example for his men, and sit upright in his saddle, but he felt like crawling into the shade and taking a nap. The sun sapped his energy and made him feel mildly dizzy.

  But he sat erectly in his saddle and squared his shoulders as his horse clomped over the desert sand. Ahead, Tim Connors and his Apache scouts were reconnoitering the terrain. In the distance was a range of brown craggy mountains shimmering in the bright sunlight.

  Lieutenant Lowell couldn’t understand how the Apaches could live and thrive in the desert. It was a hellish climate unfit for human habitation, in his opinion.

  “Connors must’ve seen somethin’,” said Sergeant McFeeley, riding next to him.

  Lieutenant Lowell raised his eyes and saw Tim Connors riding back toward him at a trot. The old scout’s hat brim was pushed back by the windstream, and his thin legs flapped from side to side against the ribs of his horse.

  Connors pulled back his reins and his horse slowed down as he approached Lieutenant Lowell.

  “Apache tracks,” Connors said. “Lots of ‘em.” He pointed toward the west. “Headed in that direction.”

  “How many?”

  “Thirty or forty.”

  I wonder what they’re up to? Lieutenant Lowell thought. They could be out hunting deer, or they could be on a raid.

  “How old are the tracks?”

  “An hour or two.”

  Lieutenant Lowell found himself faced with a dilemma. Should he follow the Apaches and see where they were headed, or continue sweeping through the valley in his search for John Stone?

  The patrol moved forward and reached the Apache scouts dismounted beside the tracks. Lieutenant Lowell, Tim Connors, and Sergeant McFeeley climbed down from their horses and joined them.

  Lieutenant Lowell dropped to one knee and looked at the tracks. He’d been in Arizona Territory long enough to know what the tracks of unshod horses looked like, and that’s what these were.

  “I think we should go after them, sir,” Connors said. “They’re prob’ly up to no good.”

  Lieutenant Lowell glanced at Sergeant McFeeley, whose face was begging him to continue the search for John Stone. Standing, he took off his campaign hat and ran his fingers through his sweaty black hair. If Apaches were on the prowl in the area, that meant that John Stone, a brother officer, was in serious danger.

  “No,” said Lieutenant Lowell, “we’ll continue on the course we’re on. Take the point, Mr. Connors.”

  Connors nodded to the Apache scouts, and they climbed onto their horses, wheeling them around and heading north again. Lieutenant Lowell and Sergeant McFeeley walked back to their horses and mounted up. Lieutenant Lowell held his reins in his left hand and raised his right arm in the air, moving it forward. The silence of the desert was overcome by the sound of cavalry on the march, and a cloud of dust rose into the air. The patrol crossed the tracks left by unshod ponies and headed north toward the mountains.

  John Stone, Juanita, and Lobo rode through a land where rocks sat on the desert like giant clinkers surrounded by forests of yucca, prickly pear, and elephant trees. The sun beat on them fiercely as their horses plodded along, their heads hanging low.

  Stone noticed that his horse’s gait was becoming irregular, and thought the heat was bothering the animal, but then the horse began to limp. Stone pulled back the reins and climbed down from the saddle to see what was wrong.

  Ahead, Lobo heard him stop. Lobo brought his horse to a halt and walked back to see what was wrong with Stone. Juanita took the opportunity to climb down from her saddle and exercise her legs.

  Stone examined the hooves of his horse, and saw that half a horseshoe had broken off one of them. “Damn!” he said, and pried the rest of the horseshoe off with his knife, then trimmed the hoof with the blade of the knife so it’d be even.

  Lobo watched him. “You not get far without new horseshoe,” he said. “I know a place not far away. Follow me.”

  “A place out here?” Stone asked incredulously. “What is it?”

  “A ranch,” Lobo replied. “Friends. Come on.” They climbed into their saddles, and Lobo rode off in a southwesterly direction. Juanita and Stone followed, Stone’s horse still limping. Stone found himself wondering what kind of ranch could exist in this demanding region of desert. Must be hardy folk, he thought.

  Samantha sat on the sofa, gripping the bottle of whiskey in her right hand. She still wore her nightgown, and the drapes covered all the windows of her home.

  She could hear the sounds of the fort outside. Horses galloped by and sergeants shouted orders on the parade field. Occasionally bugles were blown. She heard the laughter of men and the voices of women, and then there were long periods of silence when she felt as if she were all alone in the world.

  She felt sick and terrible. An unpleasant odor arose from her body.

  She couldn’t believe that she’d sunk so low. In Boston she’d been a vivacious young woman with throngs of friends and male suitors coming out of the woodwork. She’d dressed in the latest fashions and never had a hair out of place, and now she was an absolute mess with no volition and no reason to smile.

  There was a knock on the door, and she decided not to answer it. She didn’t want to see anybody. It couldn’t be anything impo
rtant.

  The knock came again, louder this time and more insistent. If I’m quiet, they’ll go away, Samantha thought.

  Then a voice came piercing through the timbers of the door. “Mrs. Lowell!” shouted Martha Braddock. “I know you’re in there! Open up!”

  Samantha’s hair nearly stood on end with fear. She didn’t want to see anybody, least of all the colonel’s wife! She looked around frantically. What could she do?

  Martha Braddock knocked on the door more insistently. “Mrs. Lowell — if you don’t open this door right now I’ll break it down!”

  Samantha swallowed hard. She saw a terrible scandal looming for herself and Josh. Burying the bottle under the cushions of the sofa, she arose, adjusted her hair, and walked unsteadily to the door. There was no escape. She had to do it. Reaching out toward the doorknob, she turned it and opened the door.

  The bright sunlight seared her eyeballs, and standing in the middle of the glare was Martha Braddock, wearing a wide straw hat.

  “May I come in?” asked Mrs. Braddock.

  “Yes, of course,” replied Samantha, “but I’m not feeling well, I’m afraid. I hope you’ll excuse my appearance.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Mrs. Braddock replied, walking past her and entering the living room. “No wonder you’re not feeling well. It’s so gloomy in here.” She threw open the drapes. “I think you need a cup of coffee. I could use one too.”

  She entered the kitchen, and Samantha followed like a sick cat. Mrs. Braddock bustled at the stove, stoking the fire, and filled the coffeepot with water. Her movements were decisive, like a soldier.

  She boiled the water and prepared the coffee, while Samantha watched silently, thinking she was in deep trouble. Mrs. Braddock was the wife of the commanding officer, and a commanding officer could make or break a young officer’s career. Josh took his career seriously, and if it was destroyed by anything Samantha did, there was no telling how he might respond. A terrible scandal could ensue, and there might be reverberations all the way to Beacon Hill.

  Mrs. Braddock opened the cupboard and took down cups and saucers. Then she carried the coffeepot and cups and saucers to the living room, placing them on the coffee table.