White Apache Page 23

  But the closer they came to water, the farther away it appeared; streams split apart, and dirt could be seen, along with scraggly grass. The lead scouts slowed down, turned around, and waved their arms from side to side. A mirage.

  It was the ideal moment for Apaches to attack, and Beau almost hoped they would, to finish him off. He let his scouts continue, while waiting for the main body to catch up. Turning in his saddle, he scanned scraggly undulating terrain. The entire Apache nation could be lurking behind the mesa less than five hundred yards away, but his eyes burned and blurred, showing odd glares and strange treelike shapes that weren't there.

  Beau had the dismal premonition that he might be killed on the Gila Expedition, not by an Apache arrow, but by lack of water. No glory would ever attach to his name, and he'd be buried in an unmarked grave to be dug up by coyotes a few hours later. He wondered how his wife and children would survive without him.

  Finally, Old Bonny Clabber arrived, followed by his color-bearer, a freckle-faced Scottish private who appeared ready to collapse. The colonel looked like a defeated old man sitting like a pile of rags on his saddle, covered with sweat.

  “The horses can't take much more of this,” he uttered, although he also referred to himself. “We might as well camp here, but you must continue searching for water.”

  “We can always return to the last water hole, sir,” Beau reminded him.

  “Soldiers don't like to retreat, Captain Hargreaves. It makes them feel like cowards.”

  “I'll bet if you asked any man in the ranks, he'd be delighted to return to the last water hole, sir.”

  “That's why he's in the ranks, and I am in command. I have given you an order, Captain Hargreaves. Please carry it out, if it's not too much trouble.”

  Beau stared at the perspiring old colonel, and realized that Colonel Bonneville was a tough old bird who'd probably be standing when the battle was over. Beau raised himself from his torpor, stiffened his spine, then threw a perfect West Point salute. “Yes, sir!”

  ***

  The warriors stared at the charred remains of the Comanchero town. Evidently, it had been torched, its inhabitants either killed or driven away, not an uncommon fate for settlements in lawless New Mexico territory. Everyone turned to Cuchillo Negro for his next command, but he kept his face immobile, for he knew the owl was responsible.

  The prophecy has been fulfilled, thought Cuchillo Negro. My days are dwindling, but what should I do with these sheep? He was tempted to turn them loose, but the People were at war and needed weapons and ammunition that sheep would buy.

  Cuchillo Negro issued no order for scouts to examine the wreckage, because they were all scouts. Delgadito rode forward with Coletto Amarillo, Barbonsito, and Cautivo, while Cuchillo Negro climbed down from his horse. He drank from his bag of water, then sat cross-legged and waited for the report. Finally, Barbonsito, a middle-aged heavyset warrior, returned with the others. “There are many bones and skulls in the wreckage. I suspect Tomas is among them.”

  Cuchillo Negro thought he saw an owl sitting in distant chaparral. He coughed, then said, “There is no other Comanchero town in this region. We must go north, but the animals need a rest. Let us find a camp ground.”

  The disheartened warriors rode off, their mission having become dangerously complicated. In the past, when bluecoat soldiers found warriors with stolen livestock, they attacked at once. That meant the warriors needed to be on their guard and surrender sheep before the soldiers came close.

  Sunny Bear rode at the rear of the stolen animals, as befit the apprentice. His nose and mouth covered with his bandanna, to protect his lungs from the dust, he turned and studied the back trail. The sheep were leaving clear markings, if anyone cared to notice.

  Next morning a Moqui army scout named Ho-say-shay spotted a clump of green in the tan desert below. He rode closer and found a water hole about eight feet across and twenty feet long in the midst of the oasis. Ho-say-shay glanced around, then dipped his mouth into the water and drank.

  The only people Ho-say-shay hated worse than Americans and Mexicans were Apaches, who had raided his pueblo many times, killing and stealing. Revenge was his motive for joining forces with the Americans.

  He knew better than to consume excessively, because he didn't want to become ill. It wasn't long before the other scouts caught up. Horses made sucking sounds as they drank, while thirsty men drank their fill. Then the main body of soldiers arrived, the bald-headed war chief helped down from his horse by Captain Covington, for Old Bonney Clabber could barely walk. Captain Covington accompanied him to the water, where he dropped to his knees, uttered a prayer, then cupped his hands and filled them with water.

  Soldiers rejoiced, and Ho-say-shay couldn't understand why they were noisy in enemy territory. If I were an Apache, this is when I'd attack.

  The Moqui's sharp eyes could not perceive Geronimo lying atop a butte one mile away, watching blue-coat soldiers at the well, precisely where expected. Silently, Geronimo descended the back of the butte, where bluecoat soldiers couldn't see him. Then he turned toward the valley below, stood, and waved his arms.

  He was spotted by Mangas Coloradas and his warriors, who had built a fire of greasewood, which gives no smoke. They also had constructed torches of dry sticks and stalks. Mangas Coloradas nodded, and the mounted warriors thrust their torches into the fire. When aflame, the warriors scattered in designated directions.

  Among them rode Juh, and as his horse sped along, he leaned to the side, touching his torch to stacks of tumbleweed, dry grass, dead trees, and everything else flammable in his path. The other warriors performed the same rite, and soon a wide section of desert was ablaze, with wind blowing flames toward the water hole.

  Mangas Colorados smiled thinly as he sat upon his horse, watching the fire spread. Welcome to the Mimbreno homeland, bluecoat bastards.

  Relaxing at the water hole, Beau realized that his faith in Colonel Bonneville had not been displaced. He's not a flashy officer with gold braid and polished brass buttons, but an old war hog who understands that an army must advance. After the men filled their canteens, they took much needed baths.

  Beau intended to join them, unbuttoning his shirt, when his Moqui scout ran toward him. “The Apaches have set fire to the desert!”

  Don't be absurd, Beau was tempted to say, but instead turned in the direction of the Moqui's finger. An ominous darkness could be seen on the horizon, not coming down from the sky in the form of rain, but rising from the earth like smoke. Ho-say-shay watched dispassionately, to see how Americans managed the new threat.

  Beau headed toward Colonel Bonneville, who sat on the ground, smoking a cigar and studying a map. “Sir,” said Beau, “if I'm not mistaken, a fire is headed this way.”

  Bonneville looked at him incredulously. “How big a fire?”

  “Enough to roast the Gila Expedition, sir.”

  In an instant the stout old ex-hero was on his feet, fumbling for his spyglass. He held it to his eye, scanned the horizon, and the four remaining hairs atop his head stood on end, but there was no panic in the officer who'd been pinned down on three sides by Mexican sharpshooters at Churubusco. “Bugler, call the men to horse!”

  Colonel Bonneville's orderly brought his mount, which had been drinking nearby, and the colonel bounded with unusual alacrity into the saddle. “Sergeant Major, I want two ranks right over here, and we don't have all day.”

  Anguished shouting combined with the occasional boot in the trousers, and it wasn't long before the command was ready to ride. “There may be an ambush waiting in any direction we go,” Colonel Bonneville told them, “so if we come upon Apaches, give them all the lead you can find!”

  The old soldier wheeled his horse, spurred it flanks, and began his ride far in front, bouncing up and down in his saddle like an egg wearing a vaquero hat. He raised his right arm in the air and cried: “Charge!”

  The Gila Expedition raced across the desert as angry spring winds whipped fla
mes into extensive infernos. Colonel Bonneville glanced sideways and was pleased to note they easily would escape the wall of destruction. The Apaches'll have to do better than that, if they want to cook my goose, he thought confidently.

  “Look!” shouted one of the scouts.

  “Another fire!” yelled Captain Hargreaves.

  Colonel Bonneville leaned ahead in his saddle, disappointed to see a fresh blaze headed toward him. Evidently, the savages had set fires from mountain range to mountain range, and the only way out was the way they'd come in.

  Colonel Bonneville led the charge in a new direction, atop a horse ready to give out, but that animal didn't care to get cooked either. Many acres of vegetation had been ignited, producing thick black smoke that blew over the soldiers, who coughed and slobbered as they struggled to escape incineration.

  The Gila Expedition covered much ground that day as they rode back and forth, fleeing widely set conflagrations. They left behind wagons and supplies, units became separated, and pandemonium had taken command.

  Mangas Coloradas and his warriors gathered upon a mountain and watched the bluecoat races. Many times warriors laughed out loud, and a few fell to the ground, where they rolled about with glee. Even dour Mangas Coloradas could not suppress a smile. “It is the army of fools,” he said.

  After a day of no food and singed clothes, the Gila Expedition swam to safety across an uncharted river approximately thirty feet across, escaping the fire. Their lungs coated with soot, eyeballs stinging, they erected tents, cooked supper, and bathed, every man among them bearing new hatred of Apaches. Colonel Bonneville noticed their change of mood as he strolled through the camp that evening, complimenting them for their exertions during the flight, even sharing coffee with them. Somehow they believed he had saved them, although fate alone had thrown the river in their path. For the first time the Gila Expedition began to feel like an army capable of inflicting hurt upon the Apaches. The Apaches have done me a favor, surmised Colonel Bonneville, as he returned to his tent.

  After a bath he sat at his desk, wearing his blue cotton robe, and wrote his report. He saw no point in portraying his command on the verge of destruction, because it would reflect upon his ability to lead. Like every officer, he knew how to make himself appear capable and resolute in the face of the enemy. One does not become a colonel without learning the art and science of self-promotion.

  When finished writing, he studied reports of Apaches stealing, burning, and killing throughout New Mexico Territory. They are afraid of me, he realized. And they have good reason, because they must rove the land in order to live, and one of these days I shall run into their tracks.

  Chuntz poked his nose out of his wickiup. Beside him were his saddlebags, bow and arrow, pounded meat, and dried mescal. It was night, and he spotted the guard, waited till she passed, then snuck outside and silently made his way toward the horses. Women, he thought with a sneer. They do not make good warriors.

  He continued through the night on his mission of betrayal. Wealth, a new peshegar, and whiskey would be his. What loyalty do I owe the People, who have never appreciated me, especially the maidens. Perhaps I can buy a black slave and live like the White Eyes. He saw himself in a blue uniform with gold buttons, riding alongside a bluecoat war chief, and Pindah women would admire such a warrior.

  “Going somewhere?” asked a female voice behind him.

  It was Seema guarding the horses, and Chuntz hadn't noticed her sneak up on him. "1 am going hunting,” he replied nervously.

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “A special spot that I know is far away. Care to come along?” He smiled, licking his lower lip.

  “Did you tell Jocita?”

  “I need meat, and I do as I please. But I would have a little left over for you, my dear Seema.”

  Her face became stern. “I am a married woman, and you should not talk to me this way.”

  Chuntz grinned, showing horsey teeth. “I am not afraid of your Pindah husband.”

  “Perhaps you should be afraid of me.”

  “You are too little to frighten me.”

  “It is true, I am much smaller than you,” replied Seema, “but there is the matter of this.” From beneath her serape she pulled Nathanial's spare Colt.36. “Now I am not so small, eh?”

  He thought of taking it away from her, but realized she'd shoot him first. “Now you are a giant, dear Seema.”

  “I do not like you, because you are a sour, foul warrior, with contempt for everyone. I warn you not to be disrespectful to me again, because no one would mourn if I shot you between the eyes.”

  “As you wish,” he replied with a bow. Then he retreated to his horse, not at all distressed. Even a woman's hatred was better than nothing for a man like Chuntz. He couldn't catch her throat from behind, because she was as quick as a puma, possibly even faster than he. I cannot frighten a woman of the People, but a Pindah should be no problem, he decided.

  Beau strolled along the riverbank, passing men washing clothing and themselves. The stink of smoke hung in the air, as rings of flame could be observed in distant mountains. Never had Apaches committed such an atrocity in all the time he'd been in New Mexico Territory.

  Tension permeated the camp, guards had been posted, and everyone was alert, weapons close at hand, although a soldier laughed gruffly not far away, perhaps a bit of gallows humor. Beau had read estimates of as many as sixteen hundred warriors residing in New Mexico Territory, and if they ever aligned under one leader, they could run roughshod over the Gila Expedition.

  He noticed Ho-say-shay, his Moqui scout, sitting on his haunches at the edge of the riverbank, solitary as a gravestone, smoking his pipe. Beau angled closer and said, “I've always been curious about you, Ho-say-shay. You're an Indian yourself, so why do you scout against your own people?”

  “The Apaches are not my people,” replied Ho-say-shay gruffly. “They are thieves and murderers who steal women and children. What makes them think this land is theirs? We have been here as long as they, but they think they are better than everyone, and they have the right to demand what we have worked to produce.”

  Beau smiled. “But the U.S. army has conquered your people also. Tell me the truth—don't you hate us as well?”

  “Not as much as the Apaches.”

  Chuntz rode all night and the next day, headed toward the Pindah camp. When his eyes wouldn't remain open, he decided to rest in a thicket with boulders to his back. Exhausted, he dropped to sleep immediately, but a warrior never lets go altogether. In the middle of the night he heard the sound of a moccasin brushing the ground ever so lightly. He lay still, focusing on a dark shadow not far away. It moved, but he couldn't make out its configuration.

  Cautiously, the shadow advanced. Chuntz heard no other sounds, and it appeared that his visitor was alone. The intruder looked like a small warrior as he drew closer. “Chuntz?” asked the voice of Martita. “I know you're there.”

  He clutched her throat, hurled her to the ground, and inserted his blade into her right nostril. “I should disfigure you, but you are so ugly already, it might be an improvement. What are you doing here, grotesque bitch!”

  She smiled calmly. “I have found you, thanks to my magical powers.”

  “What magical powers? You are an insect, that is all. Do you think I am flattered to know that you watch me? Give me one reason why I should not kill you.”

  “Four eyes are better than two, and I am deadly with bow and arrow. I can help you, and I too want to escape the People.”

  “But I am only going hunting.”

  “You are headed straight toward the White Eyes, because there is no special game on this range. And I understand how much you hate, because you and I are similar. You are going to betray the People, and I will accompany you.”

  He removed the blade from her nose and placed it against her throat. “I should kill you.”

  “Go ahead,” she replied, eyes narrowing in the night. “I love you, and yo
u may do anything with me that you like.”

  His warped loneliness nearly choked him. “Take your hand off me!”

  “It is dark, my sweet,” she replied in a silky voice as she moved closer. “You cannot see how ugly I am. Why not pretend that I am beautiful, like Jocita.”

  An anguished sigh escaped his lips as she caressed him.

  It was three o'clock in the morning in Washington D.C.; one light burned in the White House, and President Buchanan sat in the library, attired in his long gray robe. Tomes on all subjects stared down at him, illuminated by the hissing gas lamp, but none could provide the answers he required.

  The Kansas mess had heated up, the latest incident provided by Robert J. Walker, newly appointed governor of the ravaged territory, who'd stated publicly that it would become a free state, thus angering proslavery residents. Meanwhile, both pro- and anti-slavery parties refused to participate in the territorial election scheduled for later that year, their conflict spreading across all of America, and preventing the Sage of Wheatfield from acquiring a decent night of sleep.

  James Buchanan despised extremism, which he held responsible for the ills of the world. In every nation he'd visited during his ambassadorial years, he'd observed radicals working with might and main to inflame popular passions, and if they found an opportunity to kill a few hundred or a few thousand of their political enemies, they never hesitated.

  Sometimes President Buchanan wished he'd remained in London, free to enjoy the simple pleasures of strolling in Hyde Park, without the weight of America on his shoulders. But his nation had needed an experienced statesman after the disastrous administrations of Franklin Pierce and Millard Fillmore, and staunchly he had stepped into the breach.

  Now, like his predecessors, he found himself characterized as weak, vacillating, and incompetent by the press. Yet I alone must bear responsibility for bloodshed that arises out of the slavery controversy, he reminded himself. I shall favor neither side, and I acknowledge no master but the law.