Apache Moon (12 page)

I wonder if Braddock and the girl were smart enough to get through the Apaches? he asked himself. I'll talk to the sheriff first thing in the morning, and he'll tell me who's in town. If the Kid's here, I'll arrest him. If not, it means the Apaches got him, but they don't kill women. It's possible that my two-thousand-dollar reward is sitting in an Apache rancheria right now, and she's probably scared half to death.

Duane had been running with the little boys for nearly a week, and his muscles had become thicker, his breath smoother, and his legs steel springs that propelled him steadily onward. The children played tag as Duane went up the side of the mountain like an antelope wearing a cowboy hat.

The life agreed with him, and he felt better than ever as he leapt over a boulder. The old medicine man had hinted that he intended to impart special warrior knowledge, but thus far all Duane did was run up and down mountains every day in the company of frisky little boys.

They dashed over ground where horses couldn't
go as they learned how to elude the Fourth Cavalry. Duane realized that the boys were warriors in training, strengthening their bodies as they studied the terrain on foot. He had to admit that it was more fun than studying Saint Thomas Aquinas in the monastery scriptorium. The freewheeling Apache lifeway made sense to him, but Duane knew that nothing was free, and Apaches weren't known for philanthropy. The old
di-yin
wants something, and I wonder what it is. He skirted around a cactus, and his jaw dropped at the sight of Cucharo sitting cross-legged stolidly in front of him! Duane tried to stop, tripped over his feet, and landed on his hands and knees. He looked up, but Cucharo had disappeared.

The children plucked at his sleeves. “Come, White Eyes. Or we will leave you here.”

“I just saw Cucharo,” he replied.

“He is back there.” The little boy pointed in the direction of the camp. “Why are you so slow?”

Duane rose to his feet, and they leapt away from him, headed toward the crest. Duane ran behind them, slapping the dirt off his hands. Did I see Cucharo, or am I going loco? The former cowboy felt light-headed, wild, and expansive. Cucharo's a clever old fox, but he doesn't
really
have magical powers, does he?

Phyllis was harvesting mescal with the other women. They dug out the cabbagelike clusters of
leaves at the hearts of the plants and tossed them into big burlap bags. The mescal would be cooked at the camp later that day.

“We go where the food is,” Huera explained, working alongside Phyllis. “In the season of Many Leaves, we are here with the mescal. In Large Leaves, we go after the wild onions and locust flowers. In Thick With Fruit, we gather the pinyon nuts in the northern mountains.”

“What about winter?”

“We eat what we have saved, and if we run out, the men go hunting or on a raid. The Mexicans and Americans have more than they need anyway.”

Phyllis pondered the significance of Huera's statement and concluded that Apaches stole not because they were inherently wicked but only for basic survival. They're a proud people, she realized, and they're not giving up easy. She was about to dig up another cactus plant when she noticed an Apache woman working several feet away. The woman, in her mid-thirties, had a grotesque gnarled scar where her nose was supposed to be, and she hacked mightily at the base of a mescal plant. Phyllis tried to imagine what terrible fate had befallen the unfortunate woman.

They swept across the desert, accompanied by several warriors deployed as bodyguards, and one was Delgado carrying his rifle cradled in his arms. He and Phyllis were polite with each other, but tension bubbled barely beneath the surface.

Phyllis knew that he wouldn't dare rape her, for he was too devious for that. But she had to admit that despite everything, he was an attractive man swaggering around half naked. She evaluated him with the eyes of a woman and concluded that he had much to offer. Duane was a mere good-natured boy compared to the Apache warrior.

But she was a good Christian and couldn't admit the sentiments to anybody. It was a wonder that she admitted them even to herself. No one will ever know, and I'll never actually
do
anything, she swore. But the thought vexed her, and sometimes at night she thought of Delgado when she lay in Duane's arms.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. I'm not in love with that Apache murderer. Why, he's barely one step above an insensate beast. I wish Duane and I could leave today, but that damned old medicine man has got Duane under his thumb. Days pass, and we're still here.

It wasn't that she didn't like Apache life. In fact, she preferred working outdoors, and the wickiup was a cozy place to sleep at night. Maybe people don't need as much room as they think, she figured. She wasn't accustomed to having other women for company, unlike the Bar T where it had been she and her mother against fifteen men.

The Apache women had stopped insulting her since the shooting demonstration. But Phyllis never relaxed her vigilance, and if she heard an unfamiliar
sound, she went for her gun. The women also carried weapons—long, gleaming knives. They listened and watched, too, ever alert for enemies.

Phyllis faced another mescal plant, and her eyes fell once more on the woman without a nose. The woman's eyes were sad, and she looked like a monster. Phyllis searched for Huera and saw her twenty yards away, behind a cholla cactus.

Phyllis walked toward her and whispered in her ear, “What happened to that woman over there—the one without a nose?”

“Her husband cut it off.”

Phyllis stared at her. “Why?”

“Because she cheat on him.”

“Is this a custom of yours?”

Huera nodded.

“What happened to the man she cheated with?”

“He is dead.”

The sheriff's office was next door to the El Sombrero Saloon, on the main street of Morellos. Marshal Dan Stowe found the local lawman sitting at his desk, looking at a stack of wanted posters recently arrived by stage from Austin.

“Well, I'll be a cotton-mouthed water moccasin!” Sheriff Abner Tillman declared as he rose behind his desk.

The two lawmen shook hands. “Looking for your
own picture?” Stowe replied. “I know you're wanted somewhere—a crazy son of a bitch like you.”

“To tell you the truth, I was a-lookin' fer you!” Sheriff Tillman wore a black beard that grew nearly as high as his eyes. A Bible sat on his desk beneath a book of Texas statutes, laws, regulations, and directives. “What brings you to town?”

“I'm looking for two people, and I figure they arrived within the past several days. One's an eighteen-year-old man, medium weight, black hair, and the other's a sixteen-year-old girl, also black hair, cute as a button I'm told. Seen them around?”

Tillman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We got a few gals like that, but they been here awhile. As fer the man, he could be anybody. What've they done?”

“His name's Duane Braddock, and he shot two men in Shelby. The girl's name is Phyllis Thornton, and she sprang him out of the army camp where he was being held. They cut out from Shelby and headed due south. I figure they had to come here, unless the Apaches got them.”

Sheriff Tillman snorted. “'At's probably what happened. The damned redskins fed Braddock to the coyotes and took the girl for a slave.”

Stowe looked from side to side, to make sure no one was around. Then he leaned toward Tillman and said, “There are traders who do business with the Apaches. Can you give me a name?”

“They might not want to talk to you, 'cause yer
the law and most of 'em sell whiskey to the injuns.”

“I asked for a name.”

“You can't trust 'em as far as you can throw 'em. They're liable to take one look at that badge on yer shirt, shoot first, and ask questions later.”

“Name?”

Tillman sighed in defeat. “Halfway down the block you'll see a saloon named the Black Cat. Ask for Miguelito and tell him I sent you.”

Lieutenant Clayton Dawes sat cross-legged beneath a mesquite tree, studying his map. He wore a scraggly beard, his clothes were filthy and tattered, skin peeled from his cheeks, and he wondered where in hell he was.

He and his men had been on the scout for nearly two weeks, and all they'd found were rattlesnakes, gophers, and armadillos, while a medley of buzzards circled overhead. They'd run out of water once but found a hole before anybody dropped out of the saddle.

Lieutenant Dawes's eyes were hollow and staring from so much sunlight, while his perspiration-soaked uniform hung loosely on his frame. But he wasn't one to give up easily. What kind of country would America be if outlaws committed crimes without fear of retribution?

He hadn't seen any Apaches, but smoke signals
had risen from the mountains every day. The red devils were tracking his progress, and he wished they'd come into the open, so he could talk with them. He was becoming increasingly certain that Duane Braddock and Phyllis Thornton had been captured or killed by Apaches. Even seasoned desert riders were stopped by Apaches, so how could two dumb children get through?

He heard footsteps and raised his eyes. Sergeant Mahoney approached with his campaign hat low over his eyes and a scowl on his face. “Request permission to speak to the detachment commander, sir?”

“Pull up a chair and sit down, Sergeant. What's on your so-called mind?”

Sergeant Mahoney sat cross-legged opposite Lieutenant Dawes, while a group of men and horses gathered about thirty yards away. The doughty sergeant leaned forward and asked, “Do you have any idea of what yer a-doin', sir? This is the longest scout we been on, and it looks like we're a-goin' around in circles.”

“We're not riding in circles, Sergeant. I'm keeping track of our progress with my map and compass. We're right here.” He pointed confidently to a likely spot on the map, although he had no idea of their present location.

Sergeant Mahoney narrowed one eye. “Don't you think it's time we headed back to Shelby, sir? I mean, what the hell do you think yer a-doin' out here?”

“Sergeant Mahoney, let me remind you of an
important fact. I ask the questions and you answer them. Not the other way around.”

“The men're gittin' riled, sir. They don't mind fightin' Apaches, and they can live on thirteen dollars a month, but they don't like to scout day after day fer no good reason. Git my drift?”

“This is still the army, Sergeant. The men will follow my commands, or I'll place them under arrest. We're on official government business, and don't let the men forget it.”

Sergeant Mahoney spat tobacco juice into the dirt. “What's the official government business? You know what the men say? They think yer a-lookin' fer Duane Braddock 'cause he screwed yer wife.”

Color drained from Lieutenant Dawes's face. Never had he been so insulted by an enlisted man, but he was a West Point graduate and his self-discipline remained impeccable. “Duane Braddock escaped because of the men themselves. He's a fugitive, and I'll damn sure arrest him if he passes by, but he's not why we're here. You've been in the army long enough to know better, but I guess I'll have to spell it out for you. It's important to scout Apache territory, so the redskins'll learn that they don't have a free hand here.”

“That ain't what the men say 'cuzz ...”

Lieutenant Dawes interrupted him. “I don't care what the men say as long as they don't say it to me.”

Sergeant Mahoney observed madness flickering in
the murky pupils of Lieutenant Dawes's eyes and decided to back off. “What should I tell the men, sir?”

“They'd better keep their eyes peeled and their mouths shut. And if any of them thinks they're big enough to shoot me, they're welcome to try.”

The sign said
BLACK CAT SALOON.
A crude black cat was painted next to the bat-wing doors, which Marshal Dan Stowe pushed open. He stepped out of the backlight and stood with his hand near his gun, ready to draw and fire.

The saloon was filled with Mexicans, Americans, and half-breeds of every type, speaking to each other in low tones, playing cards, and drinking whiskey. Stowe figured that half were wanted, with the rest plotting future crimes. The border was a good place to do business, in case fast disappearances were required.

Everyone looked at the tin badge as the federal marshal threaded among the tables, his hand near his Remington. The bartender muttered something, and a group of customers made way. “What can I do fer ya, Marshal?”

“Whiskey.”

The bartender filled a glass to the halfway mark, and Stowe threw a few coins on the counter. “I'm looking for Miguelito.”

“Who's Miguelito?”

Marshal Stowe reached forward and grabbed a
fistful of the bartender's shirt. “Sheriff Tillman sent me to talk with him.”

The bartender went pale. “Over there.”

A dark-skinned midget with a nose like a fist sat at a table, reading a newspaper and drinking whiskey. Marshal Stowe carried his glass across the floor as gamblers and desperadoes watched his progress. Miguelito saw him coming and lowered his hand toward his gun.

“Mind if I sit down?” Stowe asked. Miguelito didn't dare protest as Stowe eased himself onto the opposite chair. “Sheriff Tillman sent me.”

Miguelito was a hunchback, his chest lopsided. “What d'ya want?”

“They say that you trade with the Apaches.”

“What if I do?”

“I'm looking for two Americans, a man and a woman, eighteen and sixteen. I have reason to believe that your people might've got them, and I want them back.”

“If my people found 'em, they're dead.”

“Don't Apaches take women for slaves?”

“If she's young and pretty ...”

“I'm sure she'd fit the bill. Can you find out where she is and then let me know?”