Warpath Page 7

  “Where are we?”

  “On the way to Tucson.”

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t take me.”

  “I change my mind.”

  “Thanks for helping me out back there in the saloon. I guess you saved my life.”

  “You are a fool.”

  “You see?” said Juanita. “He says the same thing I do. There is something wrong with you. You cannot fight the whole world all by yourself.”

  Lobo dropped the wood to the ground. Then he opened the top of the sack, revealing a variety of berries. “Food,” he said.

  “What happened after I passed out?” Stone asked.

  Juanita answered: “The Indian stole a few horses and we rode away.”

  “I don’t understand why we had to leave,” Stone said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. The man attacked me with a knife, and I defended myself.”

  Juanita shook her head impatiently. “You do not understand, gringo. Rodrigo’s men want to kill you.”

  “What about the law?”

  “The sheriff is only one man. Rodrigo’s men are many.”

  “Why doesn’t the Army do something?”

  Lobo answered: “The bluecoats fight the Apache, and that is all. The bluecoats are not sheriffs.”

  Stone leaned back on the saddle he was using for a pillow. It was the lawlessness of the frontier all over again. Everybody was drunk, everybody carried at least one gun, thieves and murderers were everywhere, and law was scarce.

  “Everything be all right in Tucson,” Juanita said. “I get a job in a cantina, and I take care of you. The Indian goes back to his job in the Army. Rodrigo’s men find somebody else to kill.”

  “I still don’t think we had to leave,” Stone said. “I know one of the officers at Fort Kimball, and I’m a former officer myself. The Army would take care of me.”

  “Maybe for a while,” Juanita said, “but sooner or later you leave Fort Kimball, and then Rodrigo’s men get you. You do not understand the kind of people they are. They are very bad hombres and they know how to wait.”

  Juanita sat beside the fire and turned over the rabbit. Lobo walked toward Stone and kneeled beside him. He reached beside Stone and picked up Stone’s two gunbelts. “Your guns are here.” He lifted Stone’s boot. “Here is your knife.”

  “Do you expect trouble?”

  “Is best to stay ready.” He placed his hand on Stone’s right shoulder. “You are true warrior. I thought he had you. He cut you many times. But you kill him. Your fight was beautiful.”

  As the morning sun rose higher in the sky, eighteen Mexican bandits rode in a single column across the desert. Miguel sat on his horse about fifty yards ahead of the rest, acting as scout, studying the ground in front of him, raising his head to the tops of hills, watching for Apaches constantly.

  The other Mexicans also were alert, glancing around them at the terrain as their horses plodded over the sand. They wore dirty white pants and shirts, with bandoliers of ammunition across their chests and wide sombreros on their heads.

  Antonio led the main column of Mexicans, and he’d been sick ever since he heard that his brother had been killed at La Rosita. Many times he wanted to let go and cry, but couldn’t do that in front of his men. He had to show strength even now in the time of his deepest sorrow.

  It still was difficult for him to believe that Rodrigo was dead, and Antonio felt a terrible emptiness. Rodrigo had been with him all his life, guiding him, teaching him, and protecting him. Now Rodrigo was gone, killed by a gringo in a knife fight.

  Antonio had seen Rodrigo fight with knives before, and there’d been no one quicker or more deadly. Antonio had thought Rodrigo invincible with a knife, and Rodrigo actually liked to fight with knives. All the bandidos were afraid of him, while Rodrigo had never been afraid of anyone, and now Rodrigo was dead, buried on the desert with a cross made of two branches tied together to mark his grave.

  Antonio had no intention of fighting the gringo with a knife when he found him. Antonio intended to shoot him on sight, and afterward maybe work on him with a knife, cut him into little pieces, and feed him to the cucarachas.

  Ahead, he saw Miguel raise his arm in the air. Miguel had stopped his horse; evidently he’d seen something. Antonio watched Miguel climb down from his horse, drop to one knee, and study something on the ground.

  Antonio and the rest of the column caught up with Miguel. “What is it?” Antonio asked.

  “Apaches,” Miguel replied.

  Antonio climbed down from his horse and looked at the tracks. A large number of unshod horses had passed by within the past few hours.

  “How many would you say?” Antonio asked.

  “A large war party, maybe thirty.”

  Antonio took off his sombrero and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He and his men wouldn’t stand much of a chance against thirty Apache warriors, and Apaches loved to kill Mexicans even more than they loved to kill gringos, due to the many massacres the Mexican cavalry had perpetrated against Apache villages.

  Miguel arose and approached Antonio, looking him in the eyes. “I think we should go back, Antonio. This is not a good time to be here.”

  “Go back if you want to,” Antonio told him coldly.

  “I understand how you feel, Antonio. Rodrigo was your brother and you loved him very mucho. But the desert is dangerous today. The Apaches are on the warpath.”

  “I am on the warpath too,” Antonio replied. “I am not afraid of Apaches. If you want to go back, that is your decision to make. I go on to Tucson to find the killer of my brother, but let me ask you something, Miguel. If you were the one who had been killed by the gringo, do you think Rodrigo would be afraid to go to Tucson to avenge your death?”

  Miguel was the oldest member of the band, fifty-three years old, and his mustache and sideburns were streaked with gray. “I will ride with you, Antonio,” he said.

  Antonio turned around and faced the others. “Anyone else who wants to turn back, to hide with the women?”

  Their eyes were downcast, and no one said anything. Miguel climbed onto his horse and rode forward, to take the scouting position once again. Antonio waited until Miguel was fifty yards ahead of him, then raised his hand high over his head and then swept it forward.

  The column of Mexican bandits advanced over the trail left by the Apache war party, and continued on its way to Tucson.

  Lieutenant Lowell walked into his house and took off his campaign hat. “Samantha?”

  There was no answer. Their Mexican maid, Carmen, came out of the kitchen. She was in her twenties with her long black hair worn in pigtails. “She is sleeping,” she said softly, one finger over her mouth.

  Lieutenant Lowell entered the bedroom and saw Samantha sleeping on top of the bedspread, wearing only a thin gown that had risen high above her thighs, showing her long lissome legs dotted here and there with freckles.

  He felt a rise of desire for her. She was so beautiful with her pale complexion and slim body. He didn’t want to wake her up, but felt he had to say good-bye to her.

  He touched his hand to her shoulder. “Samantha?”

  She opened big blue eyes, smiled sleepily, and raised her arms. He dropped on top of her and touched his lips to hers, feeling her firm young body and ripe breasts beneath him.

  “I was just dreaming about you,” she whispered.

  She pulled him against her and kissed him again. They squirmed against each other, kissing and breathing heavily.

  “This is such a pleasant surprise,” she murmured. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I can’t stay long,” he replied. “I’m going out on patrol.”

  She stiffened underneath him, and suddenly the mood in the bedroom changed.

  “You just came back from patrol,” she said, pushing him away. “How come you’re going out again?”

  “Apaches are on the warpath.”

  “They’re always on the warpath. There’s nothing new about that.”r />
  “Colonel Braddock wants me to see if I can rescue that fellow named John Stone who I told you about this morning.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You volunteered for the patrol, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so.” She rolled over and got out of bed, straightening her gown, covering herself up. Then she put on her robe and tied the belt. “So,” she said, “you’d rather be out with your troopers than here with me, as usual. Isn’t that so?”

  “I have a job to do. Captain Stone’s life is in danger.”

  “What about my life?”

  “You’re in no danger that I can see.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll tell you one thing, Lieutenant Joshua Lowell. Your marriage is in danger and you don’t seem to realize it.”

  “Do you expect me to resign my commission and stay home with you all day?”

  “You can be reassigned to the East Coast if you want to.”

  “Field command is important in the career of an officer, and that’s why I need to be here. If you cared about my career, like the other officers’ wives on the post, our marriage would be all right, but instead you’re always complaining and I’m getting sick of it.”

  “Is that so? Well I’m getting sick of it too, what do you think of that?”

  “I’ve got to get going,” he said. “I’ll talk with you when I get back.”

  “That’s the way you always deal with the problems that we have. You’ll talk about them when you get back, but then, as soon as you get back, you go out again, because, damn you, you’re always volunteering for patrols!

  She stood across from him, her hands on her hips, and looked utterly stunning in her rage. He took a step toward her.

  “Get away from me,” she said, a deadly tone in her voice.

  He came closer and was about to wrap his arms around her waist when she slapped him hard across his face. His instinct was to counterpunch, and he raised his fist, but took a deep breath and stopped himself.

  “I think I’d better get going,” he said huskily.

  “Don’t expect me to be here when you get back,” she replied.

  “I’m tired of arguing with you. If you want to go — then go.”

  He turned around and walked out of the bedroom, leaving her standing beside the bed, trembling with rage.

  “The Indian said to drink this.”

  Stone opened his eyes and saw Juanita’s face above him, her lips curled in a faint smile. She held a tin cup in her hand.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Who in hell knows?”

  Stone took the tin cup and drank the bitter fluid. “Tastes terrible.”

  “He said to drink it all.”

  Stone gulped it down, then handed the cup back to Juanita.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  He moved his left arm, and the pain seemed to be greatly diminished. “I think I’m better,” he said.

  “Your color is mucho healthier. I think you be all right.”

  “Where’s Lobo?”

  “He comes and he goes.”

  They were in the middle of a thicket, and the sky overhead had a few puffy clouds. A faint wind blew, rustling the leaves and branches. In the distance he could see a purple mountain range.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked her.

  “Sometimes I am glad Rodrigo is dead, and other times I am not so sure. I hated him and I was afraid of him, but he took good care of me. I never miss one meal in all the years I was with Rodrigo, but before him I miss many meals. But I know you will take good care of me. I will not miss any meals with you either, I do not think so.”

  “Wait a minute, Juanita. I think you’ve misunderstood something. When we get to Tucson, we’re splitting up. You go your way and I go mine. I’m engaged to get married, remember?”

  “That is just a game you are playing. That woman is gone and you will never see her again. You have kill Rodrigo, and I was his woman. Now I am your woman. You will understand better when you are recover from your wound, and anyway, Tucson is a long distance away. Maybe we never make it. Maybe the Apaches will get us, or maybe Antonio hunt us down first. Antonio is Rodrigo’s little brother, only he is not so little. He will want to kill you, gringo, and me too. I will bet you that he is somewhere out here right now, looking for the both of us.”

  She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Stone turned his head and saw Lobo emerge from the desert, carrying his little deerskin bag and some canteens full of water.

  “That Indian always scare me so much when he show up like that,” she said, placing her hand on her heart.

  Lobo kneeled beside Stone and removed the crude bandage made from the matted torn sleeve of Stone’s shirt. Then he opened his bag and took out some long thin leaves, placing them on the wound.

  “You will be well soon,” he said.

  Lieutenant Lowell sat on his horse, his saber in its scabbard on his belt, his campaign hat low over his eyes. Before him was his patrol, twenty men armed to the teeth plus two Apache scouts, Tim Connors on his dun, and Sergeant Gerald McFeeley, lined up in two ranks in front of the flagpole.

  “All right, men!” Lieutenant Lowell shouted. “You’ve all been through this before and you know what to do! That’s Apache country out there, so keep your eyes open, remember your training, and follow your orders! If we run into the Apache, make every shot count! Stay together and be ready for anything! Sergeant McFeeley — move ’em out!”

  Sergeant McFeeley called out the orders, and the two ranks turned left, forming two columns. Lieutenant Lowell galloped to the front, followed by the corporal carrying the guidon, and the patrol followed behind them in a clatter of hoofbeats.

  Colonel Braddock watched from the window of his office, holding his hands clasped behind his back. Whenever a patrol went out, he always wondered if it’d come back.

  Colonel Braddock’s eyes focused on Lieutenant Lowell riding at the head of the column on a spirited horse that pranced and danced as if it knew it was special. Lieutenant Lowell sat erectly in his saddle, his elbows straight down and not flapping foolishly like an inexperienced rider, and Colonel Braddock remembered when he’d been a young officer leading men on patrol. He envied Lieutenant Lowell and wished he could be young again, full of piss and vinegar, but that was all over for him now.

  Sighing, he returned to his desk and stuffed his briar with tobacco. I’m just a high-priced clerk, he thought. Just an old man in a fancy uniform.

  High on a mountain overlooking Fort Kimball, Black Bear lay on his stomach and watched the cavalry column move onto the desert. He counted the number of soldiers and scouts, noted that they had no cannon, and watched for a while to determine their direction.

  Then he arose and crept back to the fire smoldering beneath the blanket. He gripped the corners of the blanket, then pulled it suddenly off the fire.

  A huge billow of smoke rose into the sky over the mountain. Black Bear waited for a few moments, then covered the fire with the blanket again. He waited until the smoke built up beneath the blanket, and removed the blanket once more.

  A second bellow of smoke floated into the bright blue sky.

  Far away, in a little valley, old Jacinto was constructing a snare out of a thin sapling. Watching him was his five-year-old grandson Perico, attired only in moccasins, a breechclout, and a red bandanna holding his straight black hair in place.

  Jacinto was sixty-five years old, wrinkled and gnarled, but still sturdy. He sprinkled some piñon nuts on the ground near the snare. “This is the bait,” he explained. “Bait is the most important part of the trap, because without it the rabbit will not even come near the trap.”

  “Look, Grandfather!”

  The boy pointed to the sky behind Jacinto, who turned and saw puffs of smoke rising above the mountains.

  “What does it say, Grandfather?”

  “We’d better return to the camp.”

  “Are the bluecoats coming?”
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  “Maybe.”

  The little boy pulled out his knife and stood defiantly with his slender legs spread apart. “Let them come! I am not afraid of them! I will kill them all!”

  “This is not a good place to fight, Perico. We are in the open. The best place to fight is where the bluecoats cannot see you, and where the bullets from his guns cannot strike you.”

  The boy looked around. “What about those rocks over there?”

  “That would be better.” Jacinto pointed. “Do you see that grove of trees over there?”

  The boy shielded his eyes from the sun with his right hand as he looked. “There is water there, is that not so, Grandfather?”

  “Yes, but you must never go to cool shade, no matter what. If there are bluecoats around, that is where they will be and you will walk right into them.”

  The old chief and the little boy moved side by side swiftly over the desert, heading back to their encampment in the hills, while behind them the smoke signals rose higher in the sky.

  Antonio and his men gathered in a wide coulee lined with clusters of trees, bushes, and cactuses. They watched the smoke rise from the mountains in the distance.

  “What do you think it means?” Antonio asked Miguel.

  Miguel shrugged. “I do not know. Maybe they have seen us.”

  “Those mountains are very far away. How can they see us?”

  “I would not put anything past the Apache. They have eyes like the eagles.”

  Antonio wasn’t sure of what to do. Rodrigo usually made the decisions for the band.

  Ramon Gonzalez, who had a long thin face, leaned on his saddle horn. “I think we should go back,” he said. “It is too dangerous out here.”

  Antonio looked coldly at him. “If you want to go back, go ahead.”

  “I think all of us should go back, not just me.”

  “No,” Antonio said. “You go back now. Alone. And when you are there, take your blanket and your woman and leave. If I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

  “But, Antonio—”

  “Get going!”

  Antonio’s face was stern and his mouth was set in a grim line. Ramon didn’t budge.