Warpath Read online

  Connors rode forward, looking down at the trampled earth over which the Apache raiders and Lieutenant Lowell’s patrol had passed. Captain Danforth waited until Connors was about twenty yards away, then hollered: “Forward ho!”

  Captain Danforth and Troop F followed Connors away from the McIntyre ranch and onto the open range. Captain Danforth peered ahead at the dim outlines of mountains and buttes in the distance. He knew Apaches didn’t like to fight at night, and was certain Lieutenant Lowell had made camp somewhere. He hoped he could reach Lieutenant Lowell before the Apaches did, otherwise the Apaches would chew him up and spit him out.

  Damn fool green West Pointer, Captain Danforth thought. Just the kind that gets men killed for nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  In deep slumber, Stone heard screaming. He awoke in a flash and reached for his Colts.

  He was in a wickiup with Lobo, Juanita, Jacinto, Wind Woman, and Peggy McIntyre. Lobo sat up, his brow furrowed, listening.

  “What’s going on?” Stone asked.

  “One of the prisoners has escaped.”

  Lobo pushed aside the length of hide that covered the entrance to the wickiup and went outside. It was dawn, and he saw a warrior carrying the cut thongs that had bound Antonio to the cactus.

  “Someone freed the prisoner!” the warrior shouted. “There is a traitor among us!”

  The warrior looked directly at Lobo as he said it, and the warrior was accompanied by a group of other warriors, all of whom had been with Coyotero on his raid against the McIntyre ranch. Lobo turned around and reentered the wickiup.

  Meanwhile, Stone was pulling on his left boot. He reached for his right boot and noticed that his knife was missing from its sheath inside it. Juanita, on the other side of the wickiup, hid her head under her blankets and pretended to be asleep.

  Lobo put on his headband and shirt and went outside again, Stone followed him, strapping on his gunbelts.

  “My knife is missing,” Stone said to Lobo. “It was in my boot, but it’s not there now.”

  “Juanita took it,” Lobo said. “During the night, I saw her.”

  “Why didn’t you say something.”

  “I was curious to see what she would do.”

  A crowd of warriors, women, and children gathered in front of Jacinto’s wickiup. Coyotero pushed through them and grabbed the cut thongs from the hand of the warrior who held them. Angrily he held the thongs in the air.

  “No one would do such a thing except the white eyes!” he hollered. “They have freed their own!” He looked at Stone and sparks of flame shot out of his eyes. “You must die!”

  Stone didn’t say a word. He spread his legs and let his hands hang loose. If they came for him, a lot of them would bite the dust before they got him.

  Jacinto came out of the tent and looked like a sleepy old man, his red headband crooked across his forehead. He drew himself up to his full height and rested his eyes upon Coyotero.

  “You again,” he said wearily. “You’re always making noise about something.”

  “The white eyes have freed our prisoner! We demand a white eyes to take the place of the one who has been freed!”

  Lobo pulled out his knife and looked at Coyotero. “All you’re going to get is this!” He held the knife blade up in the air.

  Coyotero whipped out his own knife and glowered at Lobo. They stared at each other in cold hatred for several seconds in silence, neither making a move.

  Jacinto stepped between them. “The agreement was that you will fight at noon. As for the prisoner who escaped, he is of no importance. If someone wants to go after him, go ahead. I do not care. Lobo and Coyotero must stay apart until the time for their fight. Is that not so?”

  He looked around at the people, and they nodded. Jacinto turned and bent over, crawling into his wickiup. Lobo and Coyotero continued to stare at each other, then Coyotero spat on the ground and plunged his knife into its sheath.

  “You have spent much time with Mountain Blossom, but it will not help you,” Coyotero said. He turned and stalked away, followed by the warriors loyal to him.

  Lobo watched him go, then drove his own knife into its sheath.

  “What did he say?” Stone asked.

  “Foolishness. Let us eat. We will need much strength for the day ahead.”

  Antonio shuffled across the desert, dragging his feet, Stone’s knife fastened beneath his belt. Dried blood covered his face, throat, chest, and stomach from where the spikes of cactus had pierced his skin. He was weak from hunger, thirst, and loss of blood. He’d lost his hat when the Apaches captured him yesterday, and felt as if the sun were baking his brain.

  All night he’d been wandering up and down hills, across silent valleys, past massive buttes towering up into the sky. Many times he thought he heard Apaches following him, and he hid in the chaparral, but no Apaches came.

  Now it was morning, and he saw two buzzards circling over his head, squawking impatiently, waiting for him to fall. More than anything else in the world he wanted just one drink of water. He had no idea of where he was, but knew he was many miles from civilization.

  “I’m going to die,” he said aloud. “The buzzards and rats will eat my liver and gnaw on my bones.”

  The desert spun around him and he had to stop. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he was on his knees. A prairie dog ran past him and he lunged for it, hoping to grab it and sink his teeth through its skin, so he could drink its blood.

  He fell on his face in the sand, and the prairie dog was gone. Antonio lay on the sand for a long time, then realized he had to get moving if he wanted to live.

  Laboriously he pushed himself to his feet, then teetered from side to side, breathing the hot desert air. His tongue was swollen and lips cracked, and every time he moved he felt excruciating pain all over his body. He peered ahead and was shocked to see two Apache warriors twenty yards in front of him, carrying rifles. They looked at him curiously, and he wondered if they were really there or if he was hallucinating. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, and saw that they were advancing toward him.

  He reached to his belt and pulled out his knife, holding the blade up in the air. The Apaches stopped, and one of them threw him a canteen.

  The canteen landed at his feet. Antonio dropped to his knees, picking up the canteen with trembling hands, unscrewing the cap and eagerly pressing the opening against his mouth.

  He drank greedily although he knew he shouldn’t drink too much at first, because it could make a man sick. Stopping himself, lowering the canteen, he screwed the lid back on and looked at the two Apaches, wondering why they hadn’t killed him.

  Then he noticed something behind the Apaches. He tried to focus and became aware of American cavalry soldiers in blue uniforms riding toward him.

  He got to his feet, still holding on to the canteen tightly, staring in disbelief at the approaching column. The two Apaches smiled at him. “Maybe I have already died,” Antonio said.

  Antonio watched the cavalry soldiers come closer. Riding at their head was a young lieutenant with a black clipped mustache, flanked by the bugler and the corporal carrying the guidon flag, and behind them, in the column of twos, were soldiers in dark blue shirts and wide-brimmed cavalry hats.

  The lieutenant raised his hand and the soldiers stopped behind him, sending forth a cloud of dust. The lieutenant rested his forearm on the horn of his saddle and leaned forward.

  “What’ve we got here?” he asked.

  “He looked like a Mexican,” said Chinchi.

  Lieutenant Lowell looked at Antonio. “Who are you?”

  Antonio told him his name. “The Apaches captured me, but I have escaped.”

  “Were you in their camp?”

  Antonio nodded.

  “Can you lead us back to them?”

  “I do not want to go there.”

  Lieutenant Lowell turned to Sergeant McFeeley. “Get this man something to ride and some food.”

  Sergeant Mc
Feeley wheeled his horse around and rode back toward the rear of the column where the pack mules were. Lieutenant Lowell dismounted and walked toward Antonio. “Looks like you’ve had a bad time.”

  “They almost kill me,” Antonio replied, raising the canteen to his mouth again, taking another swig.

  “You’ll be able to have your revenge, if you can lead us back there.”

  “I am not sure I know the way.”

  Chinchi was standing nearby with Blanco, pointing toward the ground. “We can follow his backtrail.”

  Lieutenant Lowell slapped Antonio on the shoulder, and Antonio blinked his eyes. He still couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a dream.

  “When did you leave the Apache camp?” Lieutenant Lowell asked.

  “Last night sometime.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “A Mexican woman captive cut me loose.”

  Sergeant McFeeley returned with a mule, a straw hat, and a few squares of hardtack. Antonio put on the hat and the soldiers helped him climb onto the mule. He munched the hardtack as Lieutenant Lowell and Sergeant McFeeley remounted.

  The cavalry patrol moved out, with Antonio riding the mule next to Lieutenant Lowell. Ahead of them, the two Apache scouts followed Antonio’s backtrail into the desert.

  Perico and several other boys sat on the ground watching John Stone and Lobo practice for the big fight.

  They were beyond the last row of wickiups, at the edge of the desert, and several prominent warriors were nearby, studying the movements of each man.

  Stone and Lobo circled each other, each carrying a knife, feinting, lunging, slashing at each other but making certain they wouldn’t actually draw blood.

  Lobo was working for speed and power, darting in and out, dancing from side to side, using the same tactics he’d used against Coyotero earlier. He knew that speed would be all-important, but he’d have to be strong too. Coyotero’s sheer physical strength had been a significant factor in their previous encounters.

  Stone was using an Apache knife given him by Lobo. It had a ten-inch blade sharp as a razor and a handle made out of the thigh bone of a bear. Stone got low, hunching his shoulders, moving the blade of the knife back and forth in front of him. He was pretending to be Coyotero, using the rushing and bullying tactics that Coyotero had employed.

  Lobo kept maneuvering away from him, and Stone tried to cut off his retreat, charging forward to confront Lobo, but Lobo never was where Stone wanted him to be.

  Stone knew he’d be in deep trouble if he were having a real fight with Lobo, because Lobo was much faster than Rodrigo and more skilled. Yet Stone was learning more about knife fighting than he’d ever known before. He knew he’d be better at it when he finished the practice.

  Lobo was retreating again, and Stone thought he saw an opening. He charged, driving the point of his knife forward toward Lobo’s stomach, but his knife cut thin air as Lobo jumped to the side and pressed the point of his own knife against Stone’s left kidney.

  Stone stopped cold in his tracks. Lobo had got him again. With a shrug, Stone stepped back and faced off with Lobo again. They looked at each other and their dance of death resumed, while above them, the sun climbed through the sky toward high noon.

  Samantha sat at her desk, writing her account of a trip to the fort hospital that morning.

  Dr. Lantz had shown her around, and it had been most depressing. Seven young soldiers were in bed, suffering from arrow and gunshot wounds, and one was nearly dead.

  Samantha had sat at his bedside for a while, holding his hand, trying to comfort him. The soldier couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, and an arrow had been shot through his left lung. Dr. Lantz cut the arrow out two days ago, but the lung was destroyed and the soldier might not live much longer. His complexion was bluish-white and he hadn’t regained full consciousness since the surgery.

  Now Samantha was writing about it, venting her anger at the Apaches who made life unsafe for everybody in the Arizona Territory. Her plan was to send the story to one of the Boston newspapers, with the hope that they’d print it. She wanted the citizens back east to understand that Apaches weren’t noble savages, as some of them might believe, but thieves, murderers, and fiends of the worst sort.

  It was getting hot inside the hut, and Samantha felt weary. She brushed her golden hair back from her forehead and stood, walking to the window, looking out at the parade ground.

  Several squads of soldiers drilled under the flaming sun, and she felt a layer of perspiration underneath her clothing. Every day was hot and sunny and she was so sick of it she wanted to scream.

  Her mind drifted back to the Boston waterfront enshrouded in fog, the cool mist touching her cheeks, the great ships with their tall masts rocking in the swells.

  She felt herself yearning for Boston, so homesick she wanted to cry. She wished she could return to that cool climate, and get away from the hot desert that was sucking her youth and strength.

  I wish I could go home, she thought, recalling the prayer she’d made at the church in Santa Maria del Pueblo yesterday. If only prayers came true.

  Chapter Eight

  It was high noon, and every man, woman, and child in the tribe had gathered in a large circle in front of Jacinto’s wickiup. Even sentries had left their posts to see the big fight between Lobo and Coyotero.

  The crowd was about half for Lobo and the rest for Coyotero. Jacinto sat at the side of the circle nearest his wickiup, with the elders and leading medicine men and women of the tribe, and among them was Mountain Blossom, chanting for Lobo.

  Lobo was already there, with Stone at his side. Lobo wore only moccasin boots and a long white breechclout, with a red bandanna holding his long hair in place and his knife in his hand. He stood at one end of the circle, a slick of sweat on his body. He shifted his weight from one foot to another and waited for Coyotero to appear.

  Nearby, Juanita sat with Perico and Peggy, who still hadn’t come out of her daze. She stared ahead blankly, her face expressionless, with no will of her own.

  Juanita was grinding her teeth nervously, hoping Lobo would win. Perico also hoped Lobo would win, because he hated Coyotero. His mother, White Cloud, sat beside him, praying for Coyotero’s death, rocking back and forth.

  A cheer went up from the warriors as Coyotero entered the ring. Like Lobo, he wore only a white breechclout and moccasin boots, carrying a knife in his hand, but his headband was blue and white stripes. He was accompanied by several of his loyal warriors, all wearing clothing or trinkets stolen from the McIntyre ranch.

  Lobo and Coyotero stood at opposite sides of the circle and stared at each other, their knives in their right hands. Electricity crackled between them, and every member of the tribe knew they were witnessing a momentous event.

  Jacinto solemnly raised his hands and clapped them together. “Begin!” he commanded.

  Lobo went on the balls of his feet and darted to the side, his hands out, his blade held parallel to the ground, razor-sharp blade up. Coyotero charged across the ring, but it wasn’t a blind charge, rather more of a swerving focused charge to the point at which he hoped to collide with Lobo.

  It appeared that they’d come together, but at the last moment Lobo jumped back, swinging his knife, and a long red gash appeared on Coyotero’s right shoulder. Before Coyotero knew what had happened, blood dripped down his arm and Lobo was nowhere in reach.

  Lobo stopped, crouched low, and held his arms out, the blade slanted toward Coyotero, who looked at him for a few moments and then let out a scream, charging across the ring at Lobo.

  Lobo didn’t move a muscle. He stood poised as Coyotero sped toward him, and then, at the split second before contact, snapped to the side and pivoted, whipping his knife through the air.

  Coyotero’s scream of triumph became a cry of pain, as a long curved cut appeared across the side of his ribs. His momentum carried him forward and the crowd ran out of his way. He tripped, fell to the ground, tumbled over, and came up on h
is feet, tensed, waiting for the countercharge, but Lobo was on the other side of the ring, crouched again, waiting.

  Coyotero felt pain in his shoulder and side, and clenched his jaw in fury. A raging hatred boiled inside him, and all he wanted to do was cut Lobo to shreds. He walked forward a few steps, then sprang at Lobo again.

  Lobo’s muscles strained in his arms and legs, and resembled thongs underneath his skin. Coyotero rushed toward him, his teeth bared in rage, and Lobo got low, then dived down at Coyotero’s feet, swung his knife, rolled over, and came up on his feet, ready to fight again.

  Coyotero’s calf was cut deeply from one side to the other, he tripped and fell, bounded around, and landed on his feet again, only this time one foot was streaked with blood.

  Coyotero was in deep pain all over his body, but some men fight better when they’re hurt the most. He breathed through his teeth and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He realized now that he had to settle down and outthink Lobo, otherwise he was going to get killed. He’d already been cut three times, and the fight had only just begun.

  He looked at Lobo and realized Lobo simply was too fast for him. The only way to defeat Lobo was to bully and push him around, work him out of position, and cut him down.

  Coyotero limped forward, stalking Lobo like a bear who’d been wounded, but was still dangerous. Lobo waited for him, and when he got close danced away.

  Coyotero followed him slowly and cautiously, determined not to be faked out again. He had to be persistent and wear Lobo down. It might take all afternoon, but he had to wait for Lobo to make that fatal mistake, while he himself had to remain vigilant, fighting a defensive and offensive fight at the same time.

  He plodded after Lobo, and Lobo kept dancing out of the way, turning his body from side to side gracefully, his long hair dancing with his feet, and Stone couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a dancer he’d seen perform in Charleston before the war. It had been a troupe from France that was touring America, and Lobo reminded him of the star of the show, who’d been remarkably strong and graceful, and yet there had been the air of deadly menace about him.