Apache Moon Page 15

  The barrage continued for some time, ripping holes in the Confederate lines, but Fitzhugh Lee's men were brave soldiers and kept moving through cannonballs and canister. When it became clear that artillery alone wouldn't stop the soldiers in gray, Custer ordered the barrage to stop. He took his position at the head of his cavalry squadrons, raised his sword in the air, and ordered the bugler to sound the charge.

  The Michigan Wolverines moved toward the valley, and it took a few minutes to reach top speed. Marshal Stowe twitched involuntarily in the saddle as he recalled the enthralling all-out cavalry charge. General Custer galloped far in front, his saber high in the air, his emblematic red scarf trailing in the breeze, as sunlight gleamed off the gold buttons and piping of his fantastical uniform. His voice could be heard to the rear ranks as he shouted hoarsely: “Come on, you Wolverines!”

  Flags and guidons fluttered in the air, and men bellowed encouragement to each other as bugle notes sang over the battlefield. The Wolverines galloped over the grass and rock-strewn valley as massed Confederate rifle balls ripped into them. Michigan horses fell, and Michigan men screamed horribly as their arms and legs were blown away, but the bold young commander never swerved in his headlong charge.

  Cavalrymen on both sides drew closer, and everyone knew that they might die within the next seconds. Captain Stowe rode ahead of old Troop B, his mustache dark, eyes clear, gut slim, as he braced himself for the ultimate clash. He raised his sword, took a deep breath, and felt a hand on his knee.

  He opened his eyes, and it was night on the southwest Texas desert. Miguelito was dismounted beside him. “Riders,” said the hunchback midget. “We'd best get off the trail.”

  Marshal Stowe perked up his ears, couldn't hear anything, but wouldn't question the ears of an Apache. His head reeled with memories of the long-ago battle as he dismounted. He followed the half-breed into the thick brush beside the trail and knelt in the shadows. Miguelito pressed his ear to the ground. “Many horses,” he said. “The People go on a raid.”

  “I wonder how many white folks will be killed,” Marshal Stowe replied sardonically. He wanted to smoke, but the light could draw unwelcome attention. The Battle of Crooked Run dissipated into the mists of time, and no longer was he Captain Dan Stowe making history with General Custer and the Michigan Wolverines.

  Now he was just a man with a badge and a warrant that he tried to convince himself was worthwhile. Issues were clear-cut during the war, but ambivalence was everywhere now that peace had arrived. Texas had an unpopular scalawag governor put into office by the Union Army. Former slaves had become sheriffs and judges, while former Confederate soldiers worked at menial jobs. Eight hundred thousand men had died on the battlefields of the Civil War to free slaves who would've been turned loose eventually anyway if they'd let history take its course. Marshal Stowe shook his head in chagrin. It was all horseshit, but so interesting while it lasted.

  “You are a strange one,” said Miguelito, looking up at him. “You want me to take you to the Apache camp, where they may kill you. And why? To arrest a man? To capture a woman? What are these people to you?”

  “It's my job, but you're half Apache and half white. What're you doing here?”

  The midget grinned and rubbed his fingers together. “Dinero.”

  It was night in the Apache camp. The women sat around a small fire, chanting prayers in unison as they implored Yusn, White Painted Woman, and the mountain spirits to make their men victorious. Their primordial rhythms rose and fell lugubriously as firelight flickered on their earnest faces.

  Phyllis sat among them, joining the simple repetitions, while studying their strange culture. Every Apache woman believed that her behavior would affect the outcome of the battle, an irrational and preposterous notion to Phyllis's mind, yet she could almost feel the power of their devotion.

  It affected her deeply, for she wasn't always the cold observer that she tried to be. She heard an outpouring of love and concern for the warriors, and it wasn't pure superstition. If a warrior died, who'd hunt for his wife and children? Apache love was based on necessity, not songs and poetry.

  She didn't want Duane to be killed on the raid, although she could always return to her family. She believed that she loved Duane deeply, but sometimes she wished for a more mature and stable man, like Delgado. One day Duane wants to be a rancher, next day he's an Apache, and if we ever get to Mexico, maybe he'll become a bullfighter. She wanted to have children, but what kind of father would the Pecos Kid be? Trouble was his middle name, and he didn't have a practical bone in his body. You don't necessarily buy the first horse you ride, Phyllis told herself. I pray to Yusn that Duane doesn't die on the raid, but when he comes back, we'll have a little talk about leaving this place.

  The voices of the women droned into the night as they held hands, rocked from side to side, and evoked Apache deities. They knew that their warriors would be approaching the renegade cave soon and then the blood would flow. O mighty Yusn, please send my man back to me whole, otherwise my children will go hungry and the People will die. O Yusn, we call upon you ardently. Please do not turn your heart from the People.

  It was silent in the cave, for the Property Dance had ended. The renegade men, women, children, and dogs lay in each other's arms on animal skins strewn on the floor, as faint wisps of smoke arose from ashes in the pit. They were naked, besotted, their bellies full, and sleepy grins spread upon their faces. They'd had a grand time and would tell the story for as long as they lived, passing it down from generation to generation of renegades, as it weaved itself into their warped traditions.

  The Property Dance had been a pleasurable experience for everyone except the guards in the desert below. Throughout the night they'd listened to shrieks of delight, drunken ravings, and grunts of passion as they watched for the advent of enemies. But no enemies came, because the cave was far from the main trails that the White Eyes used, while the People didn't visit the canyon often.

  Red Claw was one of the guards, twenty years old, the son of Jamata. He felt bitter that he'd been selected to stand guard because he preferred dancing with naked women in the cave. The desert was silent, cold, and dark in the hour before dawn. He sat with his back to a juniper tree, knees in the air, rifle lying beside him. He should be hiding, but he was confident that he'd see or hear an intruder before the intruder caught wind of him.

  There would be other Property Dances, and he could play with the women then. Not even his father could ask him to guard two Property Dances in a row. Red Claw was in awe of the mad sorcerer who'd led them across the desert to their new life. Jamata held them together and brought them much booty. The People and the White Eyes were crops that the renegades harvested regularly. Someday Jamata will die, Red Claw reflected as he closed his eyes. And then perhaps I will become chief.

  He decided to sleep, for no one would know, and what would it matter? Then he heard a moccasin gently touch the earth behind him. Red Claw opened his eyes as dark shadows swirled above him. He opened his mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over his mouth, while something sharp and terrible pierced his throat. Red Claw coughed as blood spurted from his jugular vein.

  The guard fell at Delgado's feet, then more of the People's warriors appeared behind bushes, trees, and clumps of cactus. Ahead was the open incline that led to the cave. The warriors deployed silently, aware that more guards were posted in the cave. Every warrior was prepared to die as they focused on vengeance, glory, and the expression on the faces of their women and children when they returned.

  They came to the edge of the vegetation line, and before them lay the steep rocky slope to the renegades’ cave. No orders had to be given, with no pause for rest. One group of warriors with rifles formed to the right, while another group similarly armed positioned themselves to the left. A third group, situated between the other two, would lead the initial charge.

  This was the most dangerous task of all, and therefore the most coveted. Duane had convinced Delgado to let him j
oin the vanguard unit, which Delgado would lead. They'd rush the cave, and when guards sounded the alarm, the other warriors would pin down the renegades with arrows and rifle fire. Delgado's warriors would jump over the outside wall and then it would be hand to hand and man to man until one side or the other was vanquished.

  The moment had arrived for the blood of the People to be avenged. Delgado raised his hand, pointed to the cave, and leapt forward. Duane and the others followed him, their moccasins making soft brushing sounds against naked rock. They covered twenty yards rapidly, when a head appeared over the top of the hideout. There was a cry, a shot, and the head disappeared. Duane set his lips in a grim line, for the next yards would be the most difficult of all.

  The warriors sped up the incline as more renegade heads appeared above the boulders. Shots rang out from the two covering forces, Jamata screamed, and there was bedlam inside the cave. Duane held his war club in his right hand and his knife in the other as he ran swiftly up the side of the mountain. Delgado was the first warrior to reach the boulder barricades, but he didn't slow down and wait for the others to catch up. He hollered his war cry, vaulted over the barrier, and landed inside the cave. Shots reverberated, screams of terror filled the air, and then the other warriors followed him over.

  Duane dropped inside the cave amid other warriors, and a scene of unspeakable madness met his eyes. Renegade sorcerers, witches, and imps scrambled for weapons, shrieking eerily. Weakened by excessive food, drink, and forbidden acts, they appeared confused, but they were warriors, too, trained from birth to fight suddenly and without mercy. They grabbed knives, clubs, lances, and anything else they could lay their hands on as they rose to meet their attackers.

  A big, burly, completely naked renegade with a scar on his chin ran toward Duane, a knife in his hand. Duane dodged to the side and then swung his war club down. It landed atop the renegade's head, which cracked apart like a rotten egg. The renegade's eyes rolled up and he dropped limply at Duane's feet.

  Duane didn't have time to sing a victory song because another renegade appeared before him, wielding a battle lance. He thrust it toward Duane, who batted it to the side with his left forearm and slammed the war club into the renegade's ear. The force of the blow flung the renegade to the ground, where he didn't move.

  The cave filled with shots, howls, and the sound of clubs landing upon heads. Duane advanced more deeply into the shadows as dust, gunsmoke, and clouds of ashes billowed all about him. One of the imps ran toward him, a knife in his hand, but Duane stepped backward because he couldn't kill a child. The imp slashed at Duane's legs, hoping to bring him down, but Duane was too fast, dancing from side to side, frustrating the child. The boy lunged desperately, and Duane plucked him out of the air, grabbed him by the neck, and pinned him to the floor. The boy wiggled and struggled like a wildcat, while Duane wondered what to do with him. He couldn't turn him loose, couldn't kill him, and didn't care to spend the rest of the day with him.

  A horrible bloodcurdling cry came to his ears. He looked up and saw a stout Apache woman running toward him, a hatchet in her hand and an expression of fury on her face. Duane turned the boy loose, and the boy jumped to his feet, picked up his knife, and resumed his efforts to hamstring Duane, while his mother sought to bury her hatchet in Duane's brain.

  Duane hadn't planned to fight women and children, and all he could do was retreat, trying to avoid slashes and chops. The little boy dived for Duane's calves, but Duane darted easily out of the way. The hatchet zoomed toward his eyebrows, but Duane sprang mightily and landed in the darkness at the rear of the cave. The mother and son murder team came after him but were cut down first by the People's warriors.

  It appeared that the struggle was coming to an end. The renegades had been taken by surprise, only a few were still fighting, and it was only a matter of time before they were subdued. Leather bags hung from pegs hammered into the cracks of the stone walls, animal skins covered the floor, and the stench of sweat, garbage, and urine rose to Duane's nostrils. The renegades had renounced their holy lifeway for a filthy existence in a dank, smelly cave.

  The sounds of fighting stopped, and Duane was about to return to fresh air when he saw movement in one of the corners. Under other circumstances, he would've thought his eyes were playing tricks, but his eyes had become more acute since his time on Gold Mountain, and he made out dim outlines of a figure lying on the floor amid piles of animal skins.

  “I see you back there,” said Duane. “Come out, or I'll go after you.”

  The figure didn't move, and Duane wondered if it was just animal skins configured like a man. But his sharp eyes perceived something animate beneath leather and fur. He held the knife tightly in his left hand and the war club in his right as he advanced cautiously toward the skins at the rear of the cave. Gingerly, he probed the knife into the rump of the devious individual.

  Suddenly the animal skins blew apart, and Duane jumped backward. A naked renegade, the paint on his face blurred weirdly, rose before Duane, a six-gun in his hand. “It is Jamata!” shouted a nearby warrior.

  Jamata fired the six-gun, but Duane dived to the side, rolled on the ground, and heard the bullet whiz over his head. He came to his feet and leapt before Jamata could thumb back the hammer for the next shot. Duane crashed into Jamata, driving him backward into the cave. They struggled for possession of the gun, Jamata tried to knee Duane in the groin, and Duane whacked Jamata across the nose with his elbow.

  Jamata lost consciousness momentarily, and Duane yanked the six-gun out of the sorcerer's hand. Jamata then pulled a knife from his belt, leapt toward his attacker, and Duane timed him coming in. He smacked Jamata in the face with the heavy hunk of metal, and the sorcerer went reeling backward. Duane aimed the six-gun and thumbed back the hammer as Jamata prepared for another charge. The first cartridge caught Jamata in the center of his chest and burrowed deep into his aorta. The evil one unraveled like a puppet with his strings suddenly removed and flopped onto the ground at Duane's feet. But Duane didn't trust the sorcerer and pumped the remaining five rounds into Jamata's torso as Jamata jerked with the impact of each bullet. The warriors gathered around and looked at the dead renegade chief bleeding on the floor.

  There was no time to waste, for no one knew what enemies the shots might attract. The warriors roved through the cave, slitting throats to make certain that the renegades were truly wiped out. Then they heaped everything flammable in the middle of the floor and set it afire. The rags, firewood, and baskets blazed as the warriors ran back to their horses. They mounted up and rode hard toward the first red sliver of dawn as a trail of smoke arose from the mouth of the cave.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE WOMEN CHANTED AND FASTED INTO the morning, while Phyllis passed from hunger to numbed stupefaction. There were moments when she caught herself mumbling incoherently. Children watched their mothers solemnly, while old men hovered in the background, recalling lost battles and fallen comrades.

  Apache superstition seemed absurd to Phyllis. She could see no linkage between female behavior and warriors on a raid. Yet they believed in the power of prayer, like Christians. If I ever get out of this, I'll write about my life with them so that people will know the truth.

  She realized that she was talking to herself again, while the others glared at her reproachfully. She stiffened her spine and returned to the steady rhythm. The Apache women felt connected to their men across vast distances, without the walls that the White Eyes constructed. They're a spiritual people, and everything they do has religious significance, Phyllis realized. But women work too hard. She looked at her hands, dark and callused. Her body had hardened, the sun had baked her face, and she had a permanent ache in her back from working animal skins.

  They heard the cries of little boys in the direction of the secret path, and the women arose, smiles spreading over their faces. A chill came over Phyllis because she feared that Duane had been killed in the raid. She drifted with the other women toward the edge of the encamp
ment and saw warriors climbing the trail, leading their horses. Phyllis couldn't discern Duane among them, and her heart sank.

  The women made a weird ululating sound as the warriors drew closer. It appeared that the raid had been successful as children danced and clapped their hands gleefully. Phyllis spotted Delgado leading the warriors and relief spread over the mountaintop. It appeared that there were no casualties so far, but the warriors looked as if they'd seen the face of hell.

  Then, toward the end of the long file, Phyllis spotted Duane. He appeared unharmed, but gravity could be seen in his every move. Phyllis's vision returned to Delgado, and she wondered how one woman could desire two men. If these people knew what was in my mind, they'd burn me at the stake.

  The warriors herded their horses into the corral as Phyllis compared Duane and Delgado. When she and Duane first arrived in the Apache camp, a huge gulf had existed between Duane and Delgado, but now they blurred together in her estimation. Somehow Duane had become a warrior, as formidable as any of them. There was something exceptional about him, and she considered him fascinating, but she had to admit that she'd prefer a man with practical habits, not one who thought he was an Apache warrior, the Pecos Kid, and God only knew what else.

  Phyllis had liked the novelty of Apache life at first, but now the only thing that made it bearable was Duane. He finished with his horse and walked toward her like a warrior lord. When he drew close, she noticed dark flecks of dried blood on his white breechcloth. The expression in his eyes bore mute testimony to a tremendous ordeal. “Are you all right, Duane?”

  He didn't reply and appeared deeply troubled. She placed her arm around his waist and urged him toward their wickiup. Dried blood also showed on the handle of his knife, while his war club carried suspicious stains. Duane had undergone another transformation, she realized, and he reminded her of Confederate soldiers who'd returned home from the war, with the same blank expression in their eyes. Duane and Phyllis crawled inside the wickiup, he wrapped his arms around her and they lay side by side, holding each other tightly.