Apache Moon Page 18

  “My woman and I must leave here,” Duane said to Delgado. “My woman will go with the tin badge to her father's house, and I'll head for Mexico. I wish I could stay, but I love my woman more.”

  “I understand,” Delgado said. “Everything I do, I do for my women—but they never appreciate nothing, and they make me loco. I will miss you.”

  “I'd never leave here if it weren't for my woman.”

  “Miguelito betrayed us.” Delgado rubbed his fingers together. “White Eyes do anything for money.”

  “There's something that I want to tell you before I leave, Delgado. You must make peace with the White Eyes, otherwise the White Eyes will wipe you out. They are much more numerous that the People, and their weapons are better than yours.”

  Delgado scowled. “If we go to the reservation, you will starve us. The blankets you give will be full of holes, and the soldiers will insult our chiefs. It is better to die a warrior than live as a rat. There can be no peace between the People and the White Eyes.” Then Delgado's features softened, and he smiled. “But you are a strange White Eyes, and your woman is very beautiful. Maybe one day our paths will cross again.”

  Stars splattered the sky overhead and the full moon smiled. Duane glanced at the other warriors and felt one of them . . . almost. Then he gazed at the fire and saw his Apache grandfather smiling at him. “Enjuh,” the old warrior said. “It is good.”

  CHAPTER 10

  IT WAS MORNING AS DUANE LED HIS HORSES toward the chief's wickiup. He wasn't anxious to leave the People, but the time had come for another dodge. The tribe had congregated for farewell ceremonies, the fire burned in front of the wickiup, and the great man was flanked by Delgado, Gootch, and a few other senior warriors. Phyllis stood to the side, while Marshal Dan Stowe hovered in the background, hand near his Remington.

  Duane came to a halt in front of the chief and bowed his head. “I must go,” he said, “but I will never forget my time with the People.”

  “The Lion never stays in one place long, but you will always be my son, and our blood is your blood.”

  Duane felt the old man's strong, gnarled hands clasping his. He didn't know what to add, so he stepped to the side and landed in front of Delgado.

  “Good-bye, my brother,” Duane said. “I am sure we will meet again someday.”

  “We will hunt antelope together,” Delgado replied, “and drink tizwin.”

  Duane was giving up the precious lifeway, but it was the price he had to pay for his ladylove. His eyes roved the tawny desert beauty whom he'd held in his arms only hours before. “I don't know how I'll get along without you,” he said as he embraced her one last time.

  “It'll be the happiest day of my life when you ride up to my front door, Duane.”

  They touched lips lightly, and Duane had the premonition that he'd never see his child bride again. They separated, tears rolled down her cheeks; they'd spent the most intense moments of their young lives together, but the time had come to say adios. Duane felt melancholy, but a warrior can't let anything show. He looked at Marshal Dan Stowe and said, “You'd better take care of her.”

  “It's not too late to change your mind,” Marshal Stowe replied. “Come back with me and I'll guarantee your safety.”

  “You can't even guarantee your own safety, lawman.”

  “You can hide wherever you want, but I’ll find you. We’ll have a showdown someday—mark my words.”

  “Up to you,” Duane replied.

  There was nothing more to say, and no reason to linger. Duane summoned his will, climbed onto his horse’s back, wheeled the animal toward Mexico, and found Cucharo standing in front of him. The old di-yin raised his hands and Duane bent to clasp them. “I’ll never forget you, Cucharo. You’ve taught me the most important lessons of my life.”

  “May the mountain spirits smile upon the Lion. I have placed some food in your saddlebags, for Mexico is a long way.”

  Duane took one last look at the camp and knew that it would disappear soon. The People would never return now that the White Eyes knew its location. He turned to Phyllis, and his eyes became misty. He knew that if he hesitated, he’d never be able to leave her and the judge would hang him high.

  He prodded his horse, and the animal clomped away from the camp. Duane’s next task was to wait for Phyllis’s letter in Morellos, but he dreaded returning to the land of the White Eyes. His body would become soft, he’d waste time in saloons, and what if her letter never came? He remembered the look in her eyes when they’d kissed for the last time. Good-bye forever, my love.

  The prospect of sleeping without her made him gloomy as he rode along. Ahead lay labyrinthine canyons, but Duane knew the terrain like the palm of his hand. He had no doubts about his ability to survive in the desert but didn’t know how he’d get along without Phyllis. The camp was barely out of sight, but he felt homesick for his wife-to-be and his little wickiup.

  Unfortunately, the law was on his trail. He needed to put as much distance between him and Marshal Stowe as possible because the lawman obviously was a fanatic. And Duane had to admit that there were some practices of the People that he couldn’t abide. If Phyllis ever had twins, he could never kill one of them, and he didn’t believe that a warrior had the right to cut off his wife’s nose.

  He rode steadily throughout the morning and came to a stream at midday. He let his horse drink as he watched the desert cautiously, rifle in his hands. Then he drank from his canteen, refilled it in the stream, and continued to watch for unusual movement. An Apache never lingers near water, the most dangerous gathering spot of all.

  He nudged his horse’s withers as the animal crossed the stream. Cold water kissed Duane’s moccasins, and he realized that he had to find some regular clothes. If the White Eyes see me like this, they’ll try to kill me. But where can I get some clothes? I have no money and nothing to trade.

  He stopped for a meal in the shade of a cottonwood tree, then searched through the saddlebags for dried mescal, nuts, and roots that he’d packed. A small deerskin pouch lay on top—the gift Cucharo had mentioned. Duane lifted it and was surprised by how much it weighed. He upended the pouch, and the pupils of his eyes expanded as three solid gold nuggets spilled onto his palm.

  Must be worth a lot of money, he figured, astonished by the sight of so much wealth. Gold was sacred to the Apaches, yet Cucharo had given it to him. They’re not as savage as we think, Duane realized. Babies die in big cities, too, from starvation, rat bites, and diseased milk. We kill them on a wider scale, but nobody gets blood on his hands. I guess evil depends on what side of the peace pipe you’re sitting on.

  Marshal Stowe and Phyllis rode blindfolded among Delgado and three other Apache warriors, but knew they were headed in a northerly direction through thorns that clawed their legs. The air was thick with the aroma of flowers, and the morning sun warmed their clothes.

  Phyllis thought of the Bar T and was anxious to see her mother and father again. Soon her life would be normal, and she wouldn’t have to rub animal skins, but she was worried about Duane. She imagined him in his Apache getup, traveling alone across the vastness of the desert. How could I let him go? she wondered.

  “Are you all right?” asked Marshal Stowe affably.

  “I’ve been thinking about Duane,” she admitted.

  “Too bad he doesn’t trust the law, but he believes his father was hung unjustly, though he doesn’t know a damn thing about it. Duane Braddock’ll never settle down until he shoots the man or men who hung his father.”

  “You’re wrong. Duane said he’d come back to me, and we’ll get married before long. He’s a man of his word, and I believe him.”

  “It’s always good to be a little suspicious, missy. Ever heard of Vanessa Dawes? I’m sure he made promises to her, too. It’s interesting—the former Miss Fontaine threw her reputation out the window when she ran off with him, and you risked jail to spring him from that army camp. I can’t help wondering about Braddock, because no woman e
ver went three steps out of the way for me. He doesn’t seem so great, but I don’t have the eyes of a woman. What is it that makes you love him?”

  Phyllis shrugged. “I’m sure there are women who wouldn’t look twice at Duane Braddock.”

  “Haven’t met one yet,” replied Marshal Stowe.

  Duane lay on his belly as he peered through pronghorn cactus leaves at two miners panning for gold in a creek. Their small stained canvas tent sat nearby, while half of a butchered mule deer hung from a tree. Both kept their rifles handy in case an Apache happened by.

  Duane didn’t dare ride close to the miners because they’d open fire. So he’d hobbled his horse a mile away and traversed the rest of the distance silently on foot. There were a fat miner with a long black beard and a skinny miner with pockmarks visible beneath sparse red whiskers. Duane thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and said, “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”

  The two miners dropped their pans in alarm, and their eyes became as big as their tin dinner plates. They glanced at each other, and then at their nearby rifles.

  “Don’t try it,” Duane said as he rose from the green desert foliage, his Colt aimed at them. “But maybe we can do business together.” He held up a gold nugget.

  They ogled it, licking their lips in anticipation. It was what they’d been panning for, and an English-speaking Apache had just shown up with the biggest lump of gold they’d ever seen!

  “Where’d you git that?” asked Fatty.

  “I’ll give you half of it for a shirt and a pair of pants.”

  “Hell, that’s the best deal I ever heard. Come on back to the tent. My name’s O’Neil, and my partner is Perez. Who might you be?”

  Duane didn’t reply as he kept his Colt moving back and forth between them. They arrived at the tent, and O’Neil ducked inside. “When you come out,” Duane said, “make sure your hands’re empty.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ fer no trouble,” replied O’Neil. “Where’d you say you found that nugget?”

  Duane kept his mouth shut, but Perez grinned and showed empty gums. “Must be a helluva strike, eh, amigo?”

  A pair of blue jeans flew out the front door of the tent, followed by a red-and-black-checkered shirt. Then O’Neil appeared, a big grin on his face. “Are you an Apache or a white man?”

  Duane held up the nugget. “Chop this in half.”

  “Right over here.” O’Neil pointed to an ax in the stump near the stream. “Must be one helluva strike. Want some firewater?”

  Duane picked up the clothes, then followed the miners to the stump. They signaled to each other with their eyes, so he kept his distance, with his finger firm on the trigger. He tossed the nugget to O’Neil, who brought it close to his beady eyes. “You must be a-sittin’ on a fortune. How come yer a-wearin’ that injun outfit?”

  “Don’t have much time,” Duane replied, indicating the stump with the barrel of his gun.

  “Yes, sir.” O’Neil glanced at Perez, who took a few steps to the side, and let his hands hang loose. Duane studied them with his sharp Apache eyes. O’Neil placed the nugget atop the stump, then raised the ax over his head. He aimed, and then suddenly pivoted, hurling the ax at Duane.

  Duane’s six-gun fired the moment the ax left O’Neil’s hand, then Duane ducked. The ax flew over his head, while O’Neil was knocked backward by the force of the bullet. Duane whirled as Perez reached for his six-gun. Duane’s Colt fired again, and a red dot appeared on Perez’s shirt. The miner dropped to his knees and then collapsed onto his face. Smoke billowed across the campsite as Duane picked the nugget off the stump. The miners could’ve taken half, but had died for it all.

  Duane returned the yellow metal to its leather pouch, then roved the campsite. He took cans of beans, a fork, a spoon, a box of matches, two Colts, two Sharps rifles, and all available ammunition. The booty went into a burlap bag, which he threw over his shoulder. Buzzards squawked happily high in the sky as Duane retreated into the desert and in seconds was gone.

  It was midafternoon, and scouts had been coming and going all day. Marshal Stowe and Phyllis couldn’t see them, but could hear hoofbeats and exchanges in the Apache language. The prisoners still were blindfolded, with no idea of their surroundings. It was their second day on the trail.

  Phyllis felt wretched now that Duane was gone. She wondered where he was and whether he was still alive. It was a long way to Mexico, and she wondered how much he’d really learned of the Apache lifeway. What is it about Duane that puts other men off? she wondered. She became aware of the air becoming cooler, and the horses came to a stop.

  “Climb down,” said Delgado.

  Phyllis lowered herself to the ground and smelled Delgado opposite her as he untied her blindfold. Her eyeballs were seared by a sudden burst of light, then a water hole came into view, surrounded by desert flowers. Marshal Stowe stood beside her, towering in the air, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we?”

  “Many bluecoat soldiers are headed this way,” Delgado said, “and we will leave you now. You may fire your guns a few times, to attract their attention.”

  Delgado and Phyllis looked meaningfully into each other’s eyes. They’d come to the fork in the road. Both wondered what might’ve happened if the right opportunity presented itself, but it hadn’t.

  “You’ve been very kind,” she said haltingly. She wanted to invite him to the Bar T for dinner, but her father would blow his head off.

  “You are very pretty,” he admitted. “I will miss you.”

  He turned abruptly, embarrassed by what he’d said, and faced Marshal Dan Stowe. “Do not try to find us again, White Eyes. Because next time we will kill you.”

  Delgado issued a curt order to the warriors. They returned to their horses, climbed into their saddles, and paused. Delgado sat atop his mount and gazed at Phyllis one last time. Then he wheeled away from her, and the horses broke into a trot. Phyllis listened to their receding hoofbeats as they vanished into the desert.

  She looked around at the water hole. It was strange to be alone in the desert with a man she barely knew. Marshal Stowe led his horse to the water, then knelt beside the hole, filled his hat with water, and drank out of it.

  Phyllis lay on her belly and lowered her lips to the water. It was cool and sweet on her tongue, with the faint taste of alkali. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and glanced at Marshal Stowe. There was something about him that she didn’t like. Maybe he was too self-righteous, or perhaps it was his long, skinny nose. “If those savages told the truth about the cavalry, your worries are over,” he said gaily. “You can go back to your father, and you’ll never have to worry your pretty head about Indians anymore.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  He tapped the document inside his shirt pocket. “I’ve still got a warrant for the Pecos Kid, and I’m going after him.”

  “But you know he’s innocent!”

  “I’m not the judge, and neither are you.”

  “Why can’t you wait until the warrant is overturned? What’s your hurry?”

  “Some people always look for the easy way out.”

  “If I wanted the easy way out, I never would’ve run away with Duane.”

  “But you’re not running away with him now.”

  His words struck her like bullets because they were true—she’d abandoned her man. “If it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be with him.”

  “So you say.”

  Phyllis felt confused by conflicting emotions. She loved Duane but hated life on the dodge. Back and forth it went in her mind, like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. “There are so many outlaws in Texas—why’re you making Duane special?”

  “If I had a warrant for somebody else, I’d go after him just as quickly.”

  “You know what I think?” she asked. “You’re jealous of Duane because all the women like him. That’s what it sounded like when you were talking about him before.”

  “Maybe so, but until that warrant is wit
hdrawn, I’ll stay on his trail.”

  “Duane’s got eyes in the back of his head, and when he draws his Colt, he doesn’t miss.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Marshal Stowe replied. “That’s what makes it interesting.” His eyes were blank and cold in the wan afternoon light.

  “I think you’re a little loco.”

  Marshal Stowe thought her a spoiled brat, while she considered him a sanctimonious bastard. They were glowing disapproval at each other, when they were startled by the sound of a voice. “Haalooooo.”

  Stowe drew his Remington and turned toward a white man in buckskins advancing on the trail, while two Apaches in blue army shirts followed him. “My name’s Krandall,” said the white man. “I’m a scout for the Fourth Cavalry. Who might you be?”

  “Marshal Dan Stowe, and this is Miss Phyllis Thornton.”

  “You got to be crazy, wanderin’ around in Apache territory like this. And this is yer squaw, ya say?”

  “I’m not a squaw,” Phyllis replied, “and the Apaches treated me very well.”

  Krandall had long brown muttonchop whiskers, and buckskin fringe hung from his arms and legs. He stared at her Apache clothes and asked, “What you say yer name was?”

  “Phyllis Thornton.”

  “Related to Big Al Thornton back in Shelby?”

  “My father.”

  The scout became more respectful. “The main detachment’ll be hyar any minute, ma’am.” He said something in Apache, and the two warriors moved toward the well. Krandall took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “What the hell you doin’ out hyar anyways?”

  “I’m on official business,” Marshal Stowe replied. “Miss Phyllis was living with some Apaches, and that’s where we ran into each other.”

  Krandall appeared impressed with the strange news as the rattle and clamor of cavalry could be heard approaching in the distance. Phyllis realized that her ordeal was coming to an end. She looked at her Apache clothes and they appeared foreign to her. I’m a fright, she thought, touching her hand to her tangled hair.