Apache Moon Read online

  Duane tried to make sense of what had happened to him. The former acolyte and scholar had busted heads with his war club and emptied his Colt into Jamata. Thou Shalt Not Kill.

  “Are you sure you're all right?” she asked.

  Duane held her closely, feeding off her warmth and strength. The renegades were degraded and degenerate, but what am I? he wondered. Their cave was the Apache Sodom and Gomorrah. “I've killed some people, and I'm not sure what it means.”

  “If you didn't stop them, they might've killed more women, including me. I prayed for you with the other women, and I've been thinking that it's time we left here. We're not Apaches, and this isn't our life-way.”

  “We'll talk about it tomorrow,” he replied. Their lips touched, because no matter how confused he was, or how irrational the world became, she was his anchor to reality. Together they sank into animal skills, removing each other's clothes.

  In the middle of the night, Duane awoke with a start. Phyllis lay with her cheek against his shoulder as coyotes howled in the distance. He'd been dreaming about Jamata, the evil sorcerer of the renegades. What kind of people could become so depraved? he wondered. Why'd they turn their backs on their holy lifeway?

  The question burned into the mind of the former seminary student, for it went to the core of evil, original sin, and the devil. It seemed incomprehensible that people wouldn't fear divine retribution. He saw the power of God as a palpable force everywhere and couldn't understand why others didn't recognize what was so obvious to him. The renegades evidently believed that nothing was greater than their own dark appetites. Woe to you, generation of vipers. But it's dangerous to think that you're an instrument of God's judgment. The more Duane probed alleys of his mind, the more confused he became. He wanted something to base his life upon but found thin ice instead.

  Phyllis made a cooing sound and moved closer to him. Her bare breast jutted against his bare chest, and the troublesome dilemma weakened before the onslaught of her generous warmth. The skin on her back was impossibly smooth. He cupped her breast in his hand.

  “What're you doing?” she asked sleepily.

  He touched his tongue to her nipple, she placed her hand on the back of his head, a nighthawk squawked as it flew overhead, and insects sang madrigals in the moonlight.

  Duane woke up several hours later and heard the ruckus of the Apache camp around him. A column of bright sunlight shone through the smoke hole, utensils clanged, children shouted, and dogs barked. Duane lay on his side, with Phyllis's back snuggled against him. He realized that all was well with the world.

  “There's something I want to talk with you about,” she said.

  She had that nagging tone in her voice, and Duane realized that the tender moment was coming to an end. He was amazed at how she could be warm one moment, cold the next, distracted, concentrated, a creature of many moods, not all pretty. It felt as if their cozy wickiup had become a lawyer's office. “What is it?” he inquired.

  “I'd really like to get out of here.”

  He wanted to explain that there was much the Apaches could teach them, and the lifeway had a beautiful simplicity, but she hadn't responded to those arguments in the past. “Just a few more days,” he muttered. “What's your hurry?”

  “I've got a pain in my back that won't go away, and we've already been here a month. Look at the lines in my face. Another few years of this, I'll be an old lady! I love you, but I want to go back to Texas.”

  “I thought we were on our way to Mexico.”

  “If I know my father, he's hired the best lawyer available. You're probably cleared by now, and I'll bet that the law has forgotten about us. Nobody'll ever convict you for shooting Otis Puckett in self-defense.”

  “Innocent men have been hung before,” he advised her, “and my father was probably one of them. I'm not going back until somebody shows me a piece of paper that says the charges against me have been dropped.” He pulled away from her and reached for his breechcloth.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To a special ceremony, otherwise the spirits of the dead will haunt us. It's called the Washing of the Weapons.”

  He believes that primitive nonsense, she thought, watching him beneath hooded eyes as he pulled on his moccasin boots, tied his gun belt, and adjusted his headband. Then he picked up his bloodied war club and knife. “I should be back in time for dinner.” He kissed her cheek and crawled out of the wickiup.

  Alone, she lay in the darkness, listening to the retreat of his footsteps. It's like being married to a tumbleweed.

  The warriors rode to a stream in a nearby canyon and lined up at the bank. All remained mounted except Cucharo, who waded into the whirling waters until he was knee deep. He spread out his arms, looked at the horizon, and chanted a litany of prayers to the mountain spirits. Then he proceeded to wash himself and his weapons, while continuing incantations.

  It was a clear day, the sky cloudless. Birds darted from flower to flower, the desert blooming with the promise of summer. Duane sat on his horse near the end of the line, and it reminded him of mass at the monastery in the clouds.

  Cucharo sloshed toward Delgado, the first Apache at the beginning of the line. Delgado held out his lance and knife and Cucharo accepted them. The diyin bent, washed the weapons in the stream, and blew upon them, while Delgado intoned his prayer of contrition.

  Cucharo passed down the row of warriors, repeating the ceremony with each man, and Duane couldn't help seeing parallels to confession, holy communion, and baptism. The di-yin then splashed toward Duane, who held out his knife and war club. Cucharo lowered them into the cloudy, meandering waters, like Easter mass when the abbot washed the feet of the acolytes. Duane felt deeply moved by Cucharo's devotion as he joined chants for divine forgiveness and understanding. He felt a glow pass from Cucharo's hand to his as he accepted his cleansed weapons. Forgive me, Father, for I know not what I do.

  Cucharo worked his way to the end of the line. It was a hard job for an old man, but he never faltered, his voice maintaining its steady drone. After absolving the last warrior, Cucharo returned to his horse. He opened a saddlebag, removed the scalp of Jamata, scratched a match on a nearby rock, and brought the flame to the blood-caked black hair. Smoke rose into the air as the hair caught fire. Cucharo watched it burn, his mouth set in a grim line. Then, when the flame licked his fingers, he tossed the scalp into the water, and the eddies carried it away.

  It appeared that the ceremony was over. The Apaches pulled away from the stream and headed back to their camp. Duane remembered White Painted Woman, the lion, and his grandfather atop Gold Mountain. Surely the universe is sanctified, he thought, whether you call him God, Yusn, or Allah.

  The warriors returned their horses to the corral, and Duane found Phyllis in front of their wickiup, cooking a stew of antelope meat, roots, and cornmeal. She glowered at him as he approached and began at the identical spot where she'd left off. “Do you think we can leave tomorrow morning?”

  “I like it here,” he replied. “I wish we didn't have to go.”

  “I miss my family, and I'm tired of the work. I never realized that you were so selfish.”

  “You're upset because you've got too much work. Maybe I should marry another woman, to help you.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “So that's it! You just want another woman. Well, I'm not sharing you with anybody!”

  “It wouldn't be a real marriage where I'd sleep with her,” he explained. “She'd just help you with the work, that's all. Maybe you and she could become friends.”

  “I'm a Texan, and my father owns a ranch. I don't want to live like an Apache any longer. If you don't come back with me, I'll go myself.”

  Duane believed that God had ordained her to be his mate for life, but he loved the holy lifeway, too. The decision required a Solomon, but he was only the Pecos Kid. He looked at the swell of her breasts, the curve of her leg, and saw the scale tip slightly in her favor. “All right,” he said sullenl
y. “I'll escort you back to the Bar T, if that's what you want. The federal marshals will probably hang me, but that's the way it goes.”

  “I don't want you doing anything out of obligation. If you don't love me, have the courage to say so. I'm sure that Delgado would escort me back to safety.”

  Duane glanced at her sharply. “I said that I'll do it, so forget about Delgado. It's true that I'll miss this place, but you're more important to me than anything else. We can start packing right now.”

  “If only I could believe that.”

  “We'll leave first thing in the morning. I was a cowboy once and I can be a cowboy again. If the judge hangs me, I'm sure you'll provide a decent funeral.”

  “Nobody's going to hang you. You're worried about nothing. I'm certain that my father's lawyer has shot holes through the charges against you.”

  She was defeating him yet again, and he wondered how he'd gotten into the argument in the first place. The only way to get along with her was to agree with everything she said. He was about to start packing when the alarm resounded at the edge of the camp.

  Duane reached for his rifle and was out of the wickiup in a split second. The warriors carried weapons and were running toward the path that led to the lowlands. Someone was coming, and it looked like trouble. Duane checked the loads in his Colt as Phyllis emerged with her rifle. She and Duane followed the other Apaches and peered down the long rocky incline at two men dressed as cowboys leading their horses upward. One was tall and the other very short.

  “It's the midget,” Phyllis explained to Duane. “He was here while you were gone with Cucharo. He trades whiskey and guns, and the People seem to respect him quite a lot. Maybe we can go back with him.”

  “Oh-oh.” Duane's Apache vision discerned the tin badge on the vest of the tall White Eyes climbing the ravine. “Here comes John Law.”

  The marshal was long and lanky, with trailing mustaches and steely eyes, while the midget was a strange mountain elf. The warriors muttered among themselves, unhappy about the newcomer approaching the top of the mountain. Delgado stood in front of the midget and demanded, “Why have you brought the White Eyes here?”

  “He is a friend,” Miguelito replied. “He has many presents.”

  Marshal Dan Stowe opened one of his saddlebags, spread a blanket on the ground, and dropped handfuls of cheap trinkets atop it.

  “This is for you,” Miguelito said. “You do not have to pay. And we have mescal juice to drink.”

  “What does the tin badge want?”

  “Two Americanos,” Miguelito replied. “The man is wanted for murder and the woman should be returned to her family.”

  The Apaches became uneasy, and some glanced nervously at Duane and Phyllis. “Just be calm,” Duane whispered softly into her ear. “Maybe he won't recognize us.”

  The Apaches turned their attention to the trinkets, while Marshal Dan Stowe examined the Apaches. Suddenly Delgado rushed forward, drew his knife, and grabbed the front of Miguelito's shirt. “You should not have brought this White Eyes here—ugly little toad!” He pressed the point of the knife into Miguelito's throat. “You showed him the way to our camp, but you will never betray us again.”

  Delgado made a sudden motion with his knife and the midget jerked spasmodically. Then the warrior let Miguelito's lifeless body drop to the ground, his throat cut from ear to ear. Marshal Stowe almost drew his gun but knew they'd get him eventually. It was difficult for him to believe that his carefully wrought plans had gone awry so suddenly. Delgado turned toward him, the bloody knife in his hand. “You should not have come here, White Eyes.”

  “Don't I know you?” Marshal Stowe asked. “I sat at the peace powwow in 1868 . . .”

  “I have never seen you before, White Eyes, and I will never see you again.” Delgado raised his knife for the death blow, but the former troop commander decided the time had come to take a step backward, yank the Remington, and aim at the middle of Delgado's chest. “Your injun friends will get me in the end,” he declared loudly, “but I'll blow a hole through you first!”

  Delgado trembled with rage as he gazed down the barrel of the gun. “You will not leave this place alive, White Eyes.”

  “Maybe not, but if your people kill me, it's not like killing an ordinary farmer or miner. I'm a United States marshal on official government business, and you'll have the United States Army down here in full force. They'll comb every cactus plant in Texas, and if they can't find you in Texas, they'll go to Mexico. You don't think Americans are afraid of Mexico, do you? There'll be soldiers in this country as far as the eye can see, and you will not escape their vengeance.”

  There was silence as everyone stared at the badge on his black leather vest. The old chief saw danger in the future for his people and knew that Americans had defeated Mexicans in many battles over the years. “The White Eyes is right,” he declared. “There will be bluecoats all over these mountains if we kill him. He can stay overnight without harm, but he must leave in the morning. This is my decision.”

  “No!” replied Delgado. “If we let him go, he will bring bluecoats to our wickiups!”

  “We will move to another mountain, but if we kill this White Eyes, the bluecoats will not rest until we are all dead. I have spoken. Enjuh.”

  A drop of ruby blood fell from Delgado's knife to the ground as he turned to the White Eyes and translated the decision: “This chief says that you can stay here tonight, but you must leave tomorrow.”

  Marshal Stowe pointed at Miguelito's corpse. “This man said that the White Eyes man and woman that I'm looking for are in this camp. Where have you hidden them?”

  “He lied,” Delgado replied. “You should not have paid him, White Eyes.”

  “I think you're the one who's lying.” Marshal Stowe continued to aim his gun at Delgado. “Why are you hiding these outlaws?”

  Delgado was becoming furious at the presumption of the White Eyes. “I have told you what this chief has said. But if you make trouble, I will kill you myself.”

  “I've come in peace,” Marshal Dan Stowe replied. Slowly, deliberately, he dropped his gun into its holster. “That's my proof.”

  Delgado was about to jump when the chief hollered, “No!” Then the chief stepped in front of Delgado. “I am an old man, but I am not afraid of you.”

  The old man appeared deadly despite his advanced years, and Delgado wouldn't fight his father under any circumstances. Delgado muttered something incomprehensible as he took a step backward. The old chief smiled at Marshal Stowe. “Come with me.”

  He placed his hand upon the marshal's back and guided him toward his wickiup. The Apaches opened a path while the lawman searched their ranks for Texans. Phyllis lowered her eyes as he passed, and the lawman didn't recognize her as his eyes lingered on hostile warriors carrying death-dealing implements. If they came at him, he'd send a few to the Happy Hunting Ground and then he'd follow.

  Marshal Stowe still was trying to recover from the sudden murder of the midget. He'd come to like Miguelito and felt guilty for causing his demise. Miguelito had been butchered like a pig, but death was no stranger to a battle-hardened veteran of the great Civil War.

  He'd been in Apache camps before, and this one was relatively small. He glanced at the chief, who examined him thoughtfully. Marshal Stowe attempted a friendly grin, while the chief tried to smile back. They'll probably kill me, Marshal Stowe figured, but nobody lives forever.

  Duane and Phyllis returned to their wickiup, sat opposite each other, and looked into each other's eyes. It wasn't necessary to speak the obvious. A federal marshal was on their trail, and a decision had to be made. Duane wished he had something to smoke and a shot of whiskey to help him think.

  No longer could he hope that the law had forgotten him. His return to the Bar T was out of the question. He felt sick because he knew that he and Phyllis were coming to a parting of the ways. She'd given him much solace, but he wasn't ready to face a crooked judge. He lowered his eyes and said in a
low voice, “I can't ask you to come to Mexico with me, and I'm sure as hell not going back to Texas now.”

  “We can go to Mexico together,” she said in a small voice. “When the charges are dropped, we can come back.”

  He touched his palm to the side of her cheek and tried to smile. “I appreciate the offer, but we both know that you don't like life on the dodge. You'd always be unhappy, and you'll take it out on me.”

  “I want a normal life. Is that so bad?”

  “Maybe it's time to make a sensible decision for a change.” He deepened his voice so that he'd sound authoritative and mature. “The best thing might be for you to go home to your family, and when your father's lawyers clear my name, send me a letter at the post office in Morellos. Then I'll return to the Bar T, we'll get married and spend the rest of our lives together. But I don't trust judges and jailers, and I'll never let them get me in their clutches if I can help it.”

  She sighed wearily. “I'm afraid that if we separate, I'll never see you again.”

  “Of course we'll see each other again. We're practically married already.”

  “You'll find a pretty senorita, or you'll get into more trouble. How can I trust you to come back?”

  “I could never forget you, and I'll follow wherever you go.”

  “I'll bet you said the same thing to Vanessa Fontaine.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but his tongue hung in midair as he realized that he had made similar statements to Vanessa. It was silent in the wickiup as they stared at each other in the dimness.

  “It's decided,” he said. “Tomorrow morning you'll go north and I'll go south. This'll be our last night together for a while, so we might as well make the most of it.”