Warpath Page 14

  “Move out!” Coyotero shouted.

  The Apache in the wagon whipped the team of horses, and they pulled their heavy load of stolen goods away from the burning buildings. Stone, Lobo, and the others followed the wagon, and Coyotero galloped forward to a position in front of the wagon, leading the way back to the desert.

  The Apache warriors yipped and yelled victoriously, brandishing their new rifles, grinning happily. Stone turned around in his saddle and looked back at the ranch buildings engulfed in flames, sending columns of black smoke rising into the sky.

  Chapter Six

  Lieutenant Lowell sat in his saddle and gazed through his spyglass at the smoke in the distance. Sergeant McFeeley was at his side, and the patrol of troopers was behind them, drinking from their canteens, grateful for the opportunity to take a break.

  Lieutenant Lowell lowered his spyglass. “What do you make of it?” he asked Tim Connors, his chief of scouts.

  “Apaches,” Connors replied.

  Lieutenant Lowell opened his map case to see what was in the direction of the smoke.

  “The McIntyre ranch is all that’s over there,” Connors said.

  “I thought the Apaches didn’t bother them.”

  “Don’t know what else it could be.”

  Lieutenant Lowell spread out his map to be sure, and the McIntyre ranch was in the direction of the smoke. The only thing to do was break off his search for John Stone and investigate the smoke.

  “How far away would you say the ranch is?” Lieutenant Lowell asked.

  “A few hours if we don’t dawdle.”

  “We’ll move out right now. Take the point, Mr. Connors.”

  Connors saluted and rode off with his two Apache scouts, heading toward the smoke in the distance. Lieutenant Lowell nudged his horse and followed them. The rest of the patrol came after him, the guidon fluttering in the breeze.

  Lieutenant Lowell wasn’t particularly surprised by the possibility of an attack on the McIntyre ranch. He had no reason to believe they’d honor special arrangements with white people. The officers at the post often had speculated that someday the Apaches would turn on the McIntyres, and Lieutenant Lowell knew for a fact that Colonel Braddock had warned Ralph McIntyre personally about the dangers of ranching in the midst of Apaches, but Ralph McIntyre believed Jacinto would protect him.

  Maybe it’s just a grass fire, he thought as he led the patrol toward the smoke in the distance. Maybe the McIntyres are all right.

  In a rocky gulch filled with prickly pear cactus, Antonio looked at the smoke rising beyond the mountains. He’d lived on or near the desert long enough to know what it meant: Apaches had set something on fire.

  Miguel stood beside him, also watching the smoke disappear into the atmosphere. “There is a big ranchero out that way,” he said. “Maybe that is what’s burning.”

  “I think we have been here long enough,” Antonio replied. “We should start moving again.”

  “In what direction?” Miguel asked.

  “Tucson.”

  Miguel opened his mouth to argue, but thought he’d better keep quiet. He didn’t want to risk making Antonio mad. Antonio had a vicious temper, especially when he was hot and cranky.

  Antonio lifted his canteen to his lips and took a gulp. He wanted to drink more, but only had an inch or two of water left at the bottom of his canteen.

  “We need to find water,” Antonio said. “Are there any water holes around here?”

  “There is one two hours away, but we must be careful. Apaches attack travelers at water holes.”

  “Lead us there,” Antonio told him. “Water is our main concern right now. You will scout the water hole carefully before we go in.”

  Miguel adjusted his gunbelt around his waist and walked toward his horse, tightening the cinch straps, climbing into the saddle.

  He rode out of the gulch and headed toward the water hole. Antonio and the others mounted up behind him, and he could hear them following.

  Miguel’s shirt was plastered to his body with sweat. All he wanted was a cool drink and a hot woman. He peered suspiciously around him, knowing Apaches could be anywhere. They could blend in with the desert and you wouldn’t know they were there until you were right on top of them.

  He didn’t like the signs. He’d seen three Apaches earlier in the day, and now they’d set something on fire. Apaches were on the warpath, and he was riding directly through their country.

  He felt discouraged, because he didn’t dare stand up to Antonio, and if Antonio didn’t kill him, the Apaches might. Maybe I should have listened to my grandmother, he said to himself sadly. Maybe I should have become a priest.

  Fort Kimball was a few hundred yards from Santa Maria del Pueblo, and Samantha walked toward the town, hoping she’d find something interesting there. She’d visited Santa Maria del Pueblo a few times before, and thought it a filthy little place with no redeeming qualities whatever, but maybe it’d be different this time.

  She wore a high-necked blouse and a long skirt with comfortable high-topped boots and a straw hat with a wide flat brim to keep the sun out of her eyes.

  Mrs. Braddock had advised her to take a closer look at the town, and that’s what she intended to do. She didn’t expect much to come of it, but was willing to give it a try. Mrs. Braddock didn’t accompany her because she had duties of her own to attend to.

  Samantha still was shaken by the events of the day. Her argument with Josh, the liquor, and the tongue-lashing from Mrs. Braddock all combined to make her feel disoriented. Mrs. Braddock had been harsh at first, but then became tender, comforting and encouraging, sort of like a mother. The hug Mrs. Braddock gave her had felt good, but Samantha still didn’t think she could be happy in this godforsaken desert community. I belong in a place like Boston.

  She didn’t think she could ever be like Mrs. Braddock, a strong woman who accepted the harsh challenges of military life and overcame them. Samantha didn’t see the point of overcoming those challenges. She wanted to enjoy life. Fort Kimball didn’t have anything that she wanted except Josh, and she wasn’t even sure about him anymore.

  The Josh she lived with now was much different from the young officer she’d fallen in love with in Boston. This Josh usually was tired and dirty, and seemed to enjoy being with his soldiers more than her. He was so concerned with his silly old career, and that was no fun for her.

  A divorce would be difficult and embarrassing, and there was something about Josh that was extremely appealing. He wasn’t the easiest person in the world to get along with, and he didn’t give her enough of his time, but they’d only been married a little over a year and she wasn’t ready to give up on him yet. Maybe Mrs. Braddock was right, and she could adjust to being the wife of an Army officer.

  She found herself on the outskirts of Santa Maria del Pueblo: squat adobe houses scattered about, a few scraggly trees, half-naked Mexican children running around, and a few wagons coming and going, spewing clouds of dust behind them.

  She continued toward the center of town, and the adobe houses were closer together, sometimes sharing common walls. Horses were tied to hitching posts in front of stores and saloons, and Mexican and American men and women walked the sidewalks, shopping or otherwise going about their business. Groups of men smoking cigarettes sat on benches in front of the stores, and she was aware that their eyes were on her as she passed.

  She came to the central square of the town, and saw the big old church, which she thought crude and grotesque compared to the churches and great cathedrals of Boston. Empty bottles and bright-colored bits of paper lay on the ground, and she recalled hearing that a festival of some kind had taken place here recently.

  She crossed her arms and looked around, wondering what Mrs. Braddock found that was so picturesque in Santa Maria del Pueblo. Samantha thought only an overheated imagination could find it picturesque. There was no museum, concert hall, or tea parlor. Men could go to saloons, but where could a woman go?

  “My
sister is very sick. You give me some money, señora?”

  Samantha looked down and saw a slim little Mexican boy with a long sad face and big brown eyes. He was barefoot, wearing rags, and Samantha was astonished to see him standing there.

  “You give me money — we send for the doctor,” the boy said, clasping his hands together and gazing imploringly into her eyes. “Please help, señora. God will repay you a hundred thousand times.”

  Samantha thought he was beautiful. Smiling, she opened her purse and dropped a few coins into his palm, and he brought his eyes close to the coins, counting them carefully.

  “Thank you, señora,” he said joyfully, his white teeth sparkling in the sun. “You are most kind. I have never seen you before, I do not think so. Are you new in this town?”

  “I live on the Army post.”

  Paco extended his arm across the square. “Have you ever been to our famous church?”

  “I’m not a Catholic,” Samantha replied.

  “You do not have to be a Catholic to go to our church. It is a very holy and great church. The Virgin herself appeared here to Padre Fernando many years ago when this was just a desert. This whole town is here only because of the Virgin. They say if you go inside and pray to the Virgin from deep in your heart, the Virgin will answer your prayer. I bet there is something you want very much, yes? Well, you go inside, and the Virgin will give it to you. Come on, I take you there.”

  The boy grabbed Samantha’s hand and dragged her across the square. She didn’t resist, and was amused by the boy’s antics. The closer she came to the church, the uglier it became. It was made of adobe like everything else in the town, and the proportions looked wrong.

  Paco stopped in front of the door. “You go inside now, señora. You pray to the Virgin and she will help you.”

  Samantha shook her head nervously. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not a believer, I’m afraid.”

  “You do not believe in God?” Paco asked, his eyes wide open with incredulity.

  “I don’t know what I believe.”

  Paco looked up at her. “You would believe if you had seen Father Fernando, because he had the stigmata. He bleed from his hands and his feets and his body, like Jesus Cristo. He was a very holy man, and the Virgin speak with him right here.”

  “Did you ever see the stigmata yourself?” Samantha asked.

  “Oh, no, señora. Father Fernando has been with God for a very long time. But my grandmother, my abuela, saw Father Fernando and the stigmata. She say he glowed as if he was made of gold.”

  Their superstitions are what keep them poor, Samantha thought, looking down at Paco. This is why they have to beg.

  Paco noticed her hesitation. “I take you,” he said.

  His slim fingers grasped her hand and before she knew what was happening she was being pulled into the church. She passed through the portals and found herself plunged into darkness, except for dim light surrounding the statue of the Virgin at the far end of the church.

  She became aware that people were praying in the pews, and could hear their whispers. The atmosphere was mysterious and a little frightening. The boy let her hand go.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  There was no answer. Evidently he’d gone. She wanted to leave too, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to turn around and walk out the door. The church was odd and interesting. It might be something to tell the people back in Boston about next time she wrote home.

  She looked at the statue of the Virgin, and thought she might as well take a closer look while she was in the church. She walked down the aisle, passing men and women hunched over in pews, rattling prayer beads. The church was nearly deserted. How odd that a whole town would be built around a popular delusion.

  She approached the statue, and a few women in black shawls prayed on their knees in front of it. Samantha had visited many fine art museums in her day, and could see that the statue was cheap, gaudy, and sentimental, even with an artificial tear flowing out of the Virgin’s eye. How can anybody believe this nonsense?

  She was about to turn and leave when she remembered what Paco told her: the Virgin would answer her prayer if she prayed hard enough.

  What the hell, she said to herself. She closed her eyes and thought: Please let me go back to Boston, and as those words passed through her mind, she saw images of Beacon Hill, the Common, and Boston harbor. She became filled with a deep and terrible homesickness. How wonderful it’d be to see her friends again. There was so much to do, so many interesting places to go, and plenty of stimulating companions in Boston. I want to go home so badly, she thought.

  She opened her eyes, and the time-worn plaster statue stood in front of her, arms extended. Samantha shrugged and turned around, walking toward the door of the church and the light of the hot desert afternoon.

  The Apache band rode across a flat expanse of desert baking in the sun. In their center was the wagon loaded with stolen goods, bouncing and rocking over the uneven ground, and the horses pulling the wagon frothed at their mouths and strained mightily with their load.

  Coyotero sat erectly astride his horse at the head of the band, scabs of blood covering the spots where he’d been cut by Lobo. It had been another successful raid, and he’d only lost a few warriors. They were lying head down on the saddles of their horses at the rear of the war party.

  Coyotero was in a rotten mood. He felt humiliated by Lobo, and his confidence in himself was shaken because he’d never tasted the bitter gall of defeat before. With shame in his heart he recalled how he’d stood quivering with Lobo’s knife in his throat, and he’d been certain he was going to die, but Lobo had given him his life back, and that was the most embarrassing part of it all. Now he was beholden to Lobo, whom he hated.

  Tomorrow he’d fight Lobo again, and this time he couldn’t lose. Somehow he’d have to be stronger and faster than ever, and he’d try no more fancy tricks, tossing his knife from one hand to the other. Tomorrow he’d steel himself and kill Lobo before everyone in the tribe. Tomorrow there’d be no mistakes.

  Farther back, in the midst of Apache warriors singing victory songs, Stone was wondering when he’d be able to get away from his captors and go to San Antone to look for Marie.

  He’d been flabbergasted when Ralph McIntyre had said he thought he’d seen Marie in San Antone. After showing the photograph all across the frontier for four years, somebody finally recognized her! He’d been getting discouraged by his fruitless search during the past several months, and even had thought about forgetting Marie and settling down with somebody else, but now his hope was renewed.

  He glanced at Peggy McIntyre riding the horse next to him, and she sat in her saddle listlessly, a blank expression on her face. The attack on her home had been so sudden and tragic that she’d gone mad, and Stone wondered if something similar might’ve happened to Marie.

  Sherman’s Army marauded through South Carolina, passing directly through their area, burning, pillaging, and destroying. Perhaps Marie’s mind had cracked under the strain. Maybe that’s why she’d never left a message for him.

  He’d been confused and demoralized before arriving at the McIntyre ranch, but now at last saw the possibility of getting some answers. The mystery would be solved if Marie was in San Antone. He hoped he’d find her there.

  On Stone’s other side, Lobo sat in his saddle, thinking about the Owl Sickness. He believed it had slowed him down during his fight with Coyotero, and nearly cost his life a few times. Once, when Coyotero had attacked him, Coyotero’s knife narrowly missed Lobo’s throat, and Lobo had a vision of the Ghost Pony. The image lasted only a moment or two, and Lobo had gone on to win the fight, but it had been very disturbing.

  Tomorrow he’d fight Coyotero again, and he needed help against the Owl Sickness. He knew of an old medicine woman in the tribe, Mountain Blossom was her name, and he’d seek her counsel as soon as he returned. Maybe she could cure him of the Owl Sickness, not just for his good, but for the good of the entire
tribe.

  Lobo believed Coyotero was an evil man and a danger to the tribe. He hated Coyotero and always had, even before Coyotero married his sister. He’d never liked the way Coyotero flouted the traditions of the people, traditions that had maintained and strengthened the people since the dawn of time.

  Lobo couldn’t understand why the spirits gave so much to Coyotero, while Coyotero gave so little to them. Somehow it didn’t seem fair, but a person could never understand the spirits. They lived by their own rules and had their own work to do.

  Somehow I must kill Coyotero tomorrow, he thought. There can be no other way.

  Juanita rode on the other side of Lobo, and she was deeply troubled. She was a captive of the dreaded Apaches, and thought they’d either kill her or make her their slave.

  She didn’t want either possibility. Somehow, no matter what she did, her situation became worse. She’d thought life had been bad enough with Rodrigo. He’d beaten her and used her in all sorts of terrible ways, but at least he’d been a Mexican. The Apaches were worse than animals, in her opinion. They lived like rats in the desert, tortured their prisoners horribly, and didn’t believe in Jesus Cristo.

  She glanced sideways at John Stone, her golden earrings glittering in the sun. The gringo is my only chance, she thought. If John Stone escaped, surely he’d take her with him. He wouldn’t leave her to the cruelties of the Apaches. He was a good man, even if he was a gringo.

  Everything happen to me, she said to herself, pinching her lips together in frustration. I cannot do nothing right.

  The cavalry patrol rode onto the main grounds of the McIntyre ranch, and before them stretched mass devastation. All the buildings were burned to the ground, and only charred pieces of wood and blackened metal fixtures remained. Buzzards circled in the sky overhead, their meal interrupted by the arrival of the cavalry.