Warpath Read online

  Lieutenant Lowell took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrant desert air. It was wonderful to be in command of fighting men. He wished he could win a great victory against the Apaches. Then Washington would take notice of him, and his career would be made.

  He was an avid reader of newspapers, and knew many unknown low-ranking officers like himself had become famous because they’d defeated Indians in battle. It was the best way to win decorations and promotions, and maybe the only way. Since his arrival in Arizona, he’d been in a few skirmishes with Apaches, but nothing big. Somehow he had to find a sizable number of Apaches and wipe them out.

  He didn’t know exactly how to accomplish that. Luck had a lot to do with it. But he was ready for the confrontation, and indeed looked forward to it. He knew all the latest theories of war, tactics, and strategies. His men had superior weaponry to the Apaches. All he needed was the opportunity to prove himself.

  A figure approached out of the darkness. It was Sergeant Gerald McFeeley, who came to attention in front of Lieutenant Lowell and saluted. “The perimeter is secure, sir. I just checked it myself.”

  “Have a seat, Sergeant. You may smoke if you like.”

  Sergeant McFeeley sat on the folding chair beside Lieutenant Lowell and rolled a cigarette, lighting it with a match. “I been thinkin’, sir,” he said. “It appears that Cap’n Stone ain’t stickin’ to the main trails, so maybe we ought to move straightaway into the desert tomorrow. I figger he’s movin’ west, so maybe we should sweep north and south, and see if we can cut his trail.”

  “Sounds like it’s worth a try, Sergeant.”

  The two men smoked in silence, staring across the campsite and into the desert beyond it. Insects chirped around them. A soldier walked past Lieutenant Lowell’s tent, carrying an armload of firewood.

  Lieutenant Lowell turned to Sergeant McFeeley. “It might be helpful if I knew a bit more about Captain Stone. You served with him in the war. What kind of officer was he?”

  Sergeant McFeeley leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Well, he wasn’t much of a talker, and he wasn’t the friendliest officer I ever seen, but all the men liked him and I did too. He always made sure we had enough to eat, and when food was short, he fought for us to make sure we got our fair share. He never asked us to do anything he wouldn’t do himself, and when we went into a fight, he was always up front, leadin’ the way instead of hidin’ in the rear like some officers. He was the strongest man I ever seen, and he was steady under fire. Old Wade Hampton liked him a lot. They was neighbors back home in South Carolina before the war.”

  Lieutenant Lowell knew who Wade Hampton was. With no military experience whatever, he’d formed the Hampton Legion at his own expense and was commissioned a colonel of cavalry. He was one of the southerners who opposed the secession, just like Robert E. Lee, but fought for the Confederacy anyway, eventually rising to the rank of major general and becoming commander of the Confederate Cavalry Corps.

  “Did you know Captain Stone well?” Lieutenant Lowell

  “Not that well, sir. We was never friends. But we got o: all right together. He was a good officer, and I couldn’t say more about any man.”

  “You’ve served under him, so you must know something about the way his mind works. He’s out here someplace, wounded, traveling with an Apache Indian and a Mexican woman. What do you think he’ll do?”

  “Exactly the opposite of what you think he’ll do, sir. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  Later, sitting alone in front of his tent, Lieutenant Lowell pondered what Sergeant McFeeley had told him. Lieutenant Lowell couldn’t help feeling inferior to Captain Stone, because he knew his men didn’t respect him the way Sergeant McFeeley respected Captain Stone. Lieutenant Lowell knew that three or four years down the road, the men who were serving under him now wouldn’t praise him and call him an outstanding officer. It’d be a miracle if they even remembered who he was.

  He wondered what qualities an officer had to have in order to inspire loyalty. He’d known officers who were conscientious and decent, but who were held in contempt by their men, and other officers, such as Colonel Braddock, also conscientious and decent, who were much admired by the men.

  Lieutenant Lowell wanted to be a great officer and be loved by his men, but didn’t know how to go about it. He suspected it would all come together if he could win a great victory against the Apaches. The men respected fighting skill — that much was clear to him. Lieutenant Lowell hoped he’d be steady under fire and a brave fighter when the time came to charge, and he hoped that time would be soon.

  If only I could find Jacinto’s camp, he thought.

  Chapter Four

  “Time to get up,” said Lobo.

  Stone opened his eyes. It was still dark, the dawn a faint glimmer on the horizon. Lobo moved toward Juanita, who was rolling up her blanket. Lobo threw the bags of food he’d collected over his horse.

  Stone’s shoulder didn’t hurt as much as yesterday, and he felt much stronger. He sat up and pulled on his boots, inserting his knife in its sheath. Standing, he strapped on his gunbelts, then walked to Lobo and Juanita who were kneeling by the fire pit.

  The fire hadn’t been lit, because the flames could be seen a long distance in the dark. Lobo passed Stone a haunch of cooked rabbit.

  “Eat it all,” Lobo commanded.

  Stone bit off a chunk of the meat and was surprised that it was so tender and juicy. Lobo placed a bag full of berries between them, and Juanita took a handful. Canteens full of water were close by.

  They ate silently as dawn brightened the horizon, casting long shadows around them, silhouetting mountains and buttes in the distance. Stone was surprised by how well he felt. The weakness of yesterday was nearly gone.

  But as he reached for the berries, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, and he winced.

  “Easy,” said Lobo. “Do not push yourself too hard.” He handed Stone a root. “Eat some of this.”

  Stone bit into it, and it was sweet as sugar. “What is it?”

  “Just a plant.”

  “I guess there’s food all around us, if you know where to look.”

  “That is so,” Lobo said. “White eyes doesn’t know where to look. That’s why white eyes must bring his whole kitchen with him whenever he comes to the desert.”

  “You don’t like white people much.”

  “I hate white eyes.”

  “Why are you helping us?”

  “Because you are a warrior, and she is your woman.”

  “She’s not my woman. Another woman is my woman.”

  Lobo laughed. Stone looked at Juanita, and she stared back at him.

  “You see?” she asked.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “That’s because you are a dumb gringo.”

  Stone chewed some berries. He was alone on the desert with an Apache who hated white people and a Mexican who thought he was a dumb gringo. Bloodthirsty Mexican bandits were following him, and the desert was crawling with Apaches who loved to torture white people.

  “How far to Tucson?” he asked.

  “Two, three days,” Lobo said. “Depends on whether we have any trouble.”

  They finished breakfast and Lobo loaded the horses with supplies.

  “Saddle up,” said Lobo. “You take that one,” he told Stone.

  Stone walked toward the horse, a chestnut gelding with sad eyes, and climbed into the saddle, feeling a sharp pain down his side.

  “Do not worry,” Lobo said. “You will get stronger every day.”

  Juanita placed one foot in the stirrup and swung her other leg around, her dress riding up over her knee. She’d combed her hair with her fingers and washed her face earlier in the morning, and her breasts pushed against the front of her blouse. She looked like a wild she-creature of the desert.

  Lobo mounted his horse and turned to the others. “Be quiet. Do what I say, and do not ask questions. Let us go.”

  Lobo prodde
d the flanks of his horse with his heels, and the horse moved forward. Juanita went second, and Stone was last. The three rode off into the chaparral as the sun rose in the sky.

  Coyotero sat in his wickiup, holding up a tin mirror. Carefully, with a steady hand, he painted a red stripe from his left ear, across his nose and cheeks, to his right ear.

  Perico poked his head into the wickiup and saw what Coyotero was doing. “Are you going to war, Stepfather?”

  “Get away from me.”

  Perico pulled his head out of the wickiup and ran to the one where he lived with his mother. He entered it and let loose the tears.

  His mother sat in the middle of the wickiup, shelling pinyon nuts. “What is wrong, Perico?” she asked.

  Perico cried, his frail body wracked with sobs. She placed her arm around his shoulders. “Don’t cry, baby,” she cooed. “I will always love you.”

  Roughly he pushed her away, leaping to another part of the wickiup where he could be alone. “I will be a great warrior someday!” he said to her. “I do not need anybody to love me!”

  Meanwhile, a crowd of warriors had gathered in front of Coyotero’s wickiup, waiting for him to come out. Their faces were painted and they were ready for war. Each wore a Medicine Cord, a loosely braided sash of two hide strings twisted around each other and draped across the body from the right shoulder to the left side. A small bag of pollen hung from each Medicine Cord. The combination was supposed to provide luck and protection in serious danger.

  Coyotero emerged from his wickiup, carrying his rifle. He looked at the others, then turned and walked toward Jacinto’s wickiup. The other warriors followed him. The women and children watched them go, wondering what their plans were. The camp had been in a state of tension ever since the big meeting yesterday.

  Coyotero came to Jacinto’s wickiup. “Jacinto!” he shouted. “We have come to speak with you.”

  Inside the wickiup, Jacinto was sleeping. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and wondered what was going on. Coyotero was hollering his name as if Jacinto were a common warrior, instead of a chief.

  Jacinto stepped out of his wickiup and found himself in front of Coyotero and the other warriors, painted and armed for combat. Jacinto drew himself to his full height, which was a few inches taller than Coyotero.

  “What do you want?” Jacinto asked.

  “We have come to tell you that we are going after horses.”

  “We have had no meeting to discuss this.”

  “I have discussed it with them,” Coyotero replied, indicating the warriors behind him. “We need horses. I saw no need of a meeting. This is not like making war against the bluecoats.”

  Coyotero always was making inroads on Jacinto’s authority. Coyotero sought to depose him, that was clear, and there wasn’t much Jacinto could do about it.

  “Where is your medicine man?” Jacinto asked. “How can you go on a raid without a medicine man?”

  Coyotero had no great faith in medicine men, and didn’t want a medicine man meddling with his plans, but most of his warriors did have faith in them. Coyotero had hoped to avoid the issue, but Jacinto had raised it in order to assert himself in some small way.

  “It is not such a big raid,” Coyotero said sullenly. “I did not think it necessary to seek out the counsel of Red Feather.”

  “That is an affront to the mountain spirits,” Jacinto replied. “It is like saying that they do not matter. Woe to the warrior who does not respect the mountain spirits. Every warrior needs their aid. You must take Red Feather with you.”

  Coyotero heard his warriors murmuring behind him, and they were agreeing with Jacinto. Coyotero felt himself being backed into a corner.

  “Very well,” he said to Jacinto. “I accept your wise counsel as always. I will take Red Feather with us.”

  Jacinto raised his hand in the air. “May Yusn give success to your raid.”

  Lobo, Juanita, and Stone rode across the desert, staying out of open spaces, hugging the shadows of mountains, and moving through regions of thick foliage.

  Stone had been wounded before, and had never recovered so rapidly. He could even move his left arm fairly well. His head was clear and he felt wide awake. He believed he could fight if it were necessary.

  It was two or three days to Tucson, Lobo had said. They had a lot of desert to cover, and it was Apache country. Stone pulled out the Colt in the holster on his right, felt the balance, and dropped it back into the holster.

  If Apaches attacked, he’d be ready for them. He looked around warily. In Nolan they’d told him he could stare directly at an Apache and not see him, because Apaches were masters at camouflaging themselves on the desert.

  Stone adjusted his hat on his head, to keep the rising sun out of his eyes. Lobo stood in his stirrups and looked back at Stone, to make sure he was all right. The three of them passed a scattering of saguaro cactuses twenty feet tall, and continued on their way toward Tucson.

  Coyotero and his warriors descended a hill not far from their encampment. Before them stretched a basin of gravel and sand, sparsely dotted with bear grass and prickly pear. They gathered around Coyotero, awaiting his orders.

  Coyotero’s dark skin glistened with sweat, and his bead necklace glittered in the sun. He sat atop a sorrel horse with a white blaze on his forehead. Coyotero’s mouth was a thin slash on his face.

  “Follow me,” he said, wheeling his horse around.

  He kicked his horse’s ribs with his heels, and his horse moved across the sandy basin. His men followed behind him in a column of twos, and bringing up the rear was Red Feather the medicine man.

  Red Feather was annoyed at the lack of respect he was receiving from Coyotero, who had not once asked for Red Feather’s advice. It was clear to Red Feather that he had been taken on the raid only because Jacinto insisted upon it, not because Coyotero wanted him.

  Red Feather didn’t know where they were going or what their plans were. He hadn’t been asked to pray to the mountain spirits for assistance and protection, or to divine their will.

  Red Feather gazed up at the blue cloudless sky, and it seemed that the spirits were talking to him. They were warning him to proceed cautiously, because disaster lay ahead. For a brief split second he had a vision of flaming wickiups and women and children lying dead on the ground, covered with blood.

  A chill passed through him. The vision passed.

  He knew it would be pointless to tell Coyotero what he’d seen, because Coyotero would pay no attention. Coyotero had no respect for the old ways.

  Red Feather had seen much war. He’d participated in the biggest battle ever fought between Apaches and bluecoats in July of 1862, in Apache Pass. Cochise and Mangas Coloradas had led the Apaches, but the bluecoats had two howitzers. The explosive shells were too much for the Apaches, who were forced from the field, leaving many dead behind, and even Mangas Coloradas himself had been seriously wounded.

  Jacinto had been in that fight too, and was shot through the stomach, but survived. Jacinto and Red Feather knew of the power of the bluecoats, and respected it. Coyotero didn’t respect it. All he wanted to do was strike back. Such a man would come to a bad end.

  Red Feather said nothing of this to any of the warriors in the raiding party. He rode quietly at the rear of the column, covering his nose with his bandanna so he wouldn’t have to breathe everybody’s dust. Coyotero and many of his warriors had turned their backs on the old Apache life-way, and that meant the mountain spirits would turn their backs on them. Great misfortune lay ahead of them, Red Feather believed. Nothing could be done about it, just as the waters of a great river could never be turned back.

  Red Feather felt a great sorrow in his heart. It didn’t bother him that the warriors didn’t respect him, but they didn’t respect the mountain spirits who gave victory to warriors.

  What will the mountain spirits do to those who turn their backs on them? he wondered.

  As Samantha gradually woke up, she thought she was hugging Josh. She
pressed her lips against his, and his lips were dry and formless. Then she realized she was kissing her pillow, and with a cry of rage she came fully awake. She picked up the pillow and flung it across the room.

  Sun streamed through the drapes. She didn’t have to look outside to know it’d be another clear bright day at Fort Kimball, because every day was clear and bright at Fort Kimball. It’d start getting hot around eleven o’clock, and she’d sweat like a pig until evening, when it became cool again.

  It was the same every day. There was no change. How she longed for one of those dark mysterious days when the fog rolled in from Boston harbor and covered everything in a soft gray mist. You could feel it on your cheeks; it was cool and refreshing.

  The Arizona sun gave her a headache. She rolled out of bed, blew her hair out of her eyes, and looked around the bedroom.

  It was about one fourth the size of her bedroom on Beacon Hill, with no beautiful paintings, no nice furniture, only adobe walls and a wooden plank floor. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said.

  She put on her robe and shuffled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, but when she looked at the stove and thought about making a fire, she didn’t feel up to it. Instead she returned to the living room, took the bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, and sat on the sofa.

  She raised the bottle to her lips and took a sip. The whiskey burned all the way down and made tears come to her eyes. Her husband was never home, and she was nearly twenty-five hundred miles from Boston.

  There was a knock on the door, and Samantha hid the bottle behind her. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Carmen the maid entered, carrying a basket containing the food she’d purchased that morning in the market in Santa Maria del Pueblo.