Warpath Page 8

  “I have been with your brother for many years,” Ramon said. “I have always been loyal. You cannot make me leave now.”

  “You are the one who wants to go back.”

  “I said we should all go back. This is Apache country. You do not understand the danger.”

  “I understand the danger,” Antonio told him, “but I am not afraid. You are afraid, because you are a coward. Go, before I kill you.”

  Ramon’s face was disfigured by anger. “I am not a coward.”

  “I say that you are.”

  Both men stared at each other as they sat atop their horses. The other bandits urged their horses out of the way.

  “I told you to leave,” Antonio said, his hand hovering over his pistol.

  “I am not going,” Ramon replied.

  They reached for their pistols and fired within a split second of each other, but Ramon’s shot was wild and Antonio’s wasn’t. A red dot appeared on the front of Ramon’s shirt, and Antonio triggered again.

  Now two red holes were on Ramon’s shirt. Ramon gazed at Antonio with eyes glazing over, and Antonio shot him again. Ramon fell off his horse and dropped to the ground.

  Antonio’s gun smoked in his hand. “Any other cowards want to go back?” he asked.

  No one said anything.

  “Felix — take his weapons and his horse.”

  Felix, short and stout, jumped down from his horse and lifted the revolver from Ramon’s lifeless hand. Antonio holstered his pistol and reached for his canteen, taking a sip of water.

  He turned to Miguel. “How far to the next water hole?”

  “A few miles.”

  Felix slung Ramon’s bandolier over his shoulder and tied the reins of Ramon’s horse to his saddle horn. Then he climbed onto his horse again.

  “Move out,” said Antonio.

  The bandits urged their horses forward, leaving behind the body of Ramon Gonzalez bleeding onto the sand.

  Juanita watched the puffs of smoke arising from the mountains. She and Lobo sat near the fire, which Lobo had just extinguished, while Stone lay several feet away, sleeping soundly. “What is the smoke saying?” she asked.

  Lobo returned his eyes to the smoke signals. “Bluecoats have left Fort Kimball.”

  “That is very good. I hope we see them.”

  “There is much desert here. They might be many miles away. Probably we will not see them.”

  “Maybe we should put up smoke of our own, to attract them.”

  “Maybe we attract my people, who will kill you and John Stone, and maybe me too. That is not good idea.”

  Juanita looked at Lobo’s dark features and thought of the atrocities Apaches committed against Mexicans, yet here she was alone on the desert with one of them.

  “Do not be afraid of me,” he said to her. “I will not hurt you.”

  “I do not trust you,” she said.

  “I do not trust you either. You make much trouble. John Stone is hurt because of you.”

  She didn’t reply. It was true. If it hadn’t been for her, Rodrigo would not have fought John Stone.

  Lobo looked down at the ground. “I am sorry. I should not say that. It was not your fault.”

  Lobo arose suddenly and walked into the chaparral. In seconds he was gone, leaving Juanita alone with Stone.

  Juanita looked at Stone. He’d been sleeping soundly ever since Lobo gave him some tea to drink, made from boiled roots of a plant that Lobo had brought to the campsite.

  Juanita arose and walked toward Stone, kneeling beside him. Stone lay on his back with his head on his saddle, his chest rising and falling gently as he breathed. A healthy color was returning to his face. Lobo said he’d be able to ride in the morning.

  Juanita crossed herself and said a prayer to the Virgin, asking for her protection and assistance. She felt frightened and alone, and in a few hours it would be dark. Wild animals and snakes were on the desert, as well as Apaches, and she still wasn’t sure about Lobo. He was a savage, capable of anything.

  If only I had never talked to this crazy gringo, she thought.

  The Apache encampment was a scattering of wickiup huts on a plateau surrounded by rolling hills. The wickiups were conical, made of bear grass and other foliage, ranging from eight to fifteen feet in diameter and standing seven or eight feet tall in the center. All faced east.

  The encampment couldn’t be seen from a distance, because the hills hid it from view. A stream passed nearby, and horses grazed on the plain.

  Perico, the little boy, watched as the warriors gathered in front of Jacinto’s wickiup. They sat on the ground, carrying rifles or bows and arrows, and waited for Jacinto to come out of his wickiup.

  Red Feather the medicine man was among them, with Eagle Claw, Black Bear, Nolga, and Tuchee. The last to arrive was Coyotero, one of Jacinto’s sons-in-law and also Perico’s stepfather, a leader among the warriors. Coyotero was short and thick across the chest, wearing a breechclout and no pants; his legs were swathed with lumpy muscle.

  Perico admired Coyotero and hated him at the same time. Coyotero had stolen many horses, killed many bluecoats, and possessed three wives, whereas most warriors only had one wife. One of Coyotero’s wives was Perico’s mother, White Cloud, and Coyotero often was cruel to her. That was why Perico didn’t like him. Coyotero treated White Cloud like a slave and favored Chata, his first wife, who also tormented White Cloud.

  Perico’s true hero had been his uncle, Lobo, but Lobo went to work for the bluecoats and was considered a traitor. Perico’s father, Zhunosho, had been killed by the white eyes while Perico was still a baby, and Perico didn’t remember him at all.

  Perico remembered Lobo, who had played with him when he was small and gave him the knife he carried. Lobo had been a great warrior, and some thought he was even greater than Coyotero, but Lobo and Coyotero had been enemies, and one day they had a big fight. It went on for a long time and both cut each other many times, but Coyotero finally won. He could have killed Lobo, but Jacinto intervened. Soon thereafter Lobo went away to work for the bluecoats.

  Perico stood beside the wickiup and watched the warriors assemble. They were the great men of the tribe, and Perico knew that someday he’d take his place among them. He wanted to be a great warrior too, but doubted that he could do it. He was afraid he wouldn’t be strong, fast, or smart enough. Coyotero never taught him anything, and he had to rely on his grandfather Jacinto for lessons, but Jacinto was chief of the tribe and too busy with his many responsibilities to give much time to Perico, who sometimes was afraid he’d never become a great warrior or even an ordinary warrior, and that would be a disgrace.

  He also was afraid he wouldn’t become a good hunter, and if he weren’t a good hunter, he would starve to death. No woman would live in his wickiup if he weren’t a good hunter. Perico didn’t sleep well and often stuttered when he was nervous, which was often. He frequently fought with other boys, and felt something serious was wrong with him, that he had a terrible flaw that would ruin his life.

  The warriors sat quietly in a circle in front of Jacinto’s wickiup, waiting for him to come out. In other parts of the encampment, women prepared food, made or repaired clothes, gathered firewood, cared for little children. The boys Perico’s age and older watched the warriors intently, their eyes filled with admiration.

  Jacinto emerged from his tent and looked strong and healthy although he was old. His posture was regal, and he still was able to kill white eyes in battle.

  He took his place in the circle and sat down, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes for a few moments, praying to Yusn, the Great Mystery, then reopened his eyes and said to the gathered warriors:

  “I have heard your thoughts even as I sat in my wickiup. I know what you want to do. You want to attack the bluecoats who have come onto our land, and you want to kill them all. But I say to you: you will never kill them all. Whenever we have killed bluecoats, more bluecoats have come. There will always be more bluecoats. And they will ne
ver leave us alone, just as the coyote will never leave the deer alone, or the birds will never leave the flowers alone, or the vultures will never leave a carcass alone. Whenever there is blood, there is always more blood. I am sick of so much blood. It has never done any good. Someday we may have to fight bluecoats again, but today there is no reason. That is what I say. That is what I think.”

  There was silence for a few seconds, and then most of the warriors turned to Coyotero, because they knew he wouldn’t agree with Jacinto, and would present the opposite side of the argument.

  Coyotero opened his mouth to speak. “We respect the words of Jacinto,” he said. “We all know that he has the best interests of our people foremost in his mind. We also know that he has been right about many things in the past, and we respect his wisdom. But I think he is wrong. I think we should kill the bluecoats wherever we find them.” He pulled out his knife and held it point up in the air. “This is all the bluecoats understand.” He held up his rifle. “And this. It is true, as Jacinto says, that there are many bluecoats, many more than we, but that doesn’t mean we should let them pass through our country unharmed. We must fight them wherever we find them. We must kill them whenever we can. It is better to die fighting than run like dogs and hope the bluecoats will leave us alone. The bluecoats will never leave us alone. So let us not be fooled by that argument. I say we must attack and kill these bluecoats who are riding into our country, and if we die, we will die like warriors.”

  Coyotero paused and looked at the faces of the warriors in the circle, then he continued. “No matter what we do, more bluecoats will keep coming into our country. If we kill these bluecoats now, or if we don’t kill them now, more bluecoats will come. This is the way it always has been and this is the way it always will be. All we can do is fight. Bluecoats must know that when they ride into our country, they are riding into their graves.”

  Coyotero’s face was flushed with emotion when he finished speaking. With abrupt angry movements, he lay his rifle on the ground in front of him and jabbed his knife back into the sheath on his belt.

  Jacinto spoke again: “Coyotero is a great warrior and he always wants to fight, but I am an old man and I have seen enough fighting. We have all killed many bluecoats, and are we any safer? No, we are less safe than ever. I have been pondering this for some time now, and I believe we must make peace with the bluecoats. I do not know exactly how to do this, but we must begin by stopping the killing. That is the first step.”

  Coyotero snorted derisively. “What kind of solution is that? We must stop killing them, but it’s all right for them to keep killing us? That is madness. Jacinto is a great chief and a great warrior, but I think he no longer understands our situation. There can be no peace with the white eyes until they are dead or we are dead. This small group of bluecoats will not be difficult for us. I say we should wipe them out tomorrow.”

  Jacinto looked around the circle, and could see that most of the warriors agreed with Coyotero. They had hot blood, like Coyotero, and wanted to kill bluecoats, regardless of the consequences.

  “If this is what you want to do, I will not stop you,” Jacinto said. “Who knows — maybe you are right and I am wrong. But before you put on your war paint, you must seek the counsel of Red Feather.”

  Everyone turned to Red Feather, the medicine man, who closed his eyes, turned down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head slowly, indicating that the mountain spirits had told him not to attack the bluecoats. Jacinto arose and walked back to his wickiup, bending low and going inside, pulling the flap over the entrance. Red Feather stood and walked off toward his wickiup, leaving Coyotero with the other warriors.

  Coyotero tried to masquerade his resentment. Sometimes he thought Red Feather was a fraud, other times he thought the mountain spirits talked to him. “Red Feather has told us the time is not right for us to kill these bluecoats,” he said, “but that does not mean we can’t kill other white eyes. Come — let us think of what we can do.”

  Coyotero got to his feet and walked toward his wickiup. The other warriors followed him, and Perico ran toward Jacinto’s wickiup, pushing aside the flap and going inside.

  He saw Jacinto lying on his mat. “Are you all right, Grandfather?” he asked.

  “I am tired, Perico.”

  “Red Feather sided with you. That means you were right.”

  “Only this time. Coyotero wants to kill white eyes, and nothing will stop him.”

  Perico pulled out his knife. “I hate white eyes too, Grandfather. I want to kill them too.”

  “Leave me,” Jacinto said. “I want to sleep.”

  Perico sheathed his knife and retreated out of Jacinto’s wickiup, leaving Jacinto alone. Jacinto looked at the twigs and branches that comprised the roof of the wickiup. I can’t control them any longer, he thought, and soon I will be dead. What will happen to the people then?

  Jacinto closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Against his eyelids, he saw the desert covered with blood.

  Samantha had a few drinks of bourbon before going to bed that night. She sat alone in her living room and sipped the whiskey in the light of a coal-oil lamp, while through her open window she heard the sounds of the desert, the night birds and coyotes howling for mates, the hooting of owls, the neighing of horses in the corral.

  She felt isolated in a place she hated, as though her life were over even though she was only twenty years old. In Boston she’d had many friends and much to do. There’d been parties, concerts, walks on the Common and lots of friends to talk with, an endless round of enjoyable activities, and men had always clustered around her like bees to honey.

  She’d selected Joshua Lowell because he’d looked so dashing and splendid in his West Point uniform. Her girlfriends all wound up with men she considered ordinary, lawyers and doctors and accountants, but she’d have a life of adventure as the wife of an Army officer, and travel to far-off parts of the country, and see interesting things.

  She’d been the center of attention when she told her friends she was going to the Arizona Territory. It all sounded so romantic and exotic. But now that she’d been in the Arizona Territory for over a year, she was going crazy.

  There was nothing romantic about the desert. It was an ugly barren place and she didn’t dare explore it, even if she wanted to, for fear of being murdered by Apaches.

  Santa Maria del Pueblo wasn’t much either, a dirty little town full of superstitious Mexicans who liked to fight with guns and knives. The restaurants were disgusting and the food unpalatable. Beggars were everywhere, and there was no social life.

  The fort didn’t provide much either. Most of the officers’ wives were frontier women without refinement or culture.

  Their primary topics of conversation were their children and the Army. They all acted as if they were grande dames, but they were country bumpkins as far as Samantha was concerned. She hated them all.

  Her only companion was her husband, but he was away most of the time. He seemed to love his career more than he loved her. Maybe I should leave him, she thought, as the whiskey made her feel light-headed. Maybe I should go back to Boston and get a divorce.

  A tear came to her eye and she brushed it away. If only there were somebody she could talk with. She was thousands of miles from home, in an ugly little house made of mud and straw, and felt like a rat in a trap.

  She was getting sleepy; it was time to go to bed. Arising, she walked to the bedroom and washed her face and hands. Then she removed her clothes.

  Naked, she stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself in the light of the coal-oil lamp. She thought she was losing her youth and beauty, becoming an old lady. Her skin was pale and her breasts were starting to sag. She was becoming gaunt, and her legs were losing their suppleness.

  No wonder he doesn’t care about me anymore, she thought sadly. She dropped her nightgown over her fantastic body and blew out the coal-oil lamp, crawling into bed.

  A breeze fluttered the curtains, and tears ro
lled down her cheeks. She’d been so happy back in Boston; maybe she should’ve married one of those businessmen who’d courted her. They weren’t as dashing as Joshua, but they could’ve given her a decent life, in contrast to the crushing boredom and isolation of Fort Kimball. Anything would be better than this.

  A terrible loneliness gnawed inside her, and she rolled over, hugging her pillow tightly, but the pillow was cold and shapeless; it didn’t provide the comfort and solace she needed.

  She’d heard stories of Apaches who sneaked into people’s homes and killed them while they slept. Her tears soaked into the pillow. I can’t stand this any longer. I’m too young to waste my life this way.

  The cavalry patrol camped for the night in a valley next to a stream of water. Tents were pitched, guards posted, and the dinner meal of salt pork and hard tack was prepared.

  The largest tent was Lieutenant Lowell’s. It had an office in front, with a portable desk and chair, plus a small sleeping area in back, with a cot. Lieutenant Lowell was the only member of the patrol who wouldn’t sleep on the ground that night.

  Lieutenant Lowell sat on his chair in front of the tent, puffing his cigar, feeling at peace with himself and the world. The patrol had gone smoothly so far and there’d been no problems. They hadn’t found any trace of John Stone, but maybe tomorrow they’d pick up his trail.

  Lieutenant Lowell looked up at myriads of stars scattered across the sky. The atmosphere was so clear he could see the mountains of the moon, which was full, bright, and bathed the desert in a pale glow, illuminating the tall saguaro cactuses surrounding the campsite.

  He heard the sounds of a military camp in the field. Pots and pans clattered, men sang old Army songs around campfires, other men cleaned their rifles. Occasionally a sergeant barked a command.

  Lieutenant Lowell wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything else in the world. He loved the Army and all it stood for, and loved to be in command.

  Back at the post, he was only another low-ranking officer, but here in the field, he was the commanding officer. Everyone deferred to him. His word was law. He saw himself in the tradition of great American military commanders such as George Washington, Andrew Jackson, Winfield Scott, Ulysses S. Grant, Philip Sheridan, and even Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee, the Confederate commanders whose generalship had been so brilliant during the Civil War.