Apache Moon (13 page)

The hunchback grinned, showing a gold tooth. “If a federal marshal is lookin' for her, she must be pretty important, no? How about twenty dollars, half in advance?”

“I'll give you five dollars now and the rest when I get her out.”

Stowe flipped a coin into the air, and the midget snatched it up. “What if she's dead?”

“We'll cross that river when we come to it. I think you'd better get started right now.”

“I have other things to do, Marshal. Do you think you are the only business that I have?”

Stowe reached over the table and grabbed the midget by the throat. “How'd you like to go to jail right now and stay there for the rest of your life?”

Delgado sat in his wickiup, smoking his clay pipe. He felt confused and wanted to speak with Cucharo, but Cucharo was spending most of his time with Duane Braddock, for a reason that Delgado couldn't determine.

Chief Pinotay was becoming more feeble every day, and soon another chief would be chosen. There were no ballot boxes, and the best warriors would battle for the high office. Delgado wanted to consult with Cucharo about the matter, but Cucharo was always gone with the White Eyes man.

Delgado lived in two worlds, one Apache and the other American. He'd seen many of the White Eyes' wonderful machines, big homes, and plentiful food, but he still preferred the holy Apache lifeway. If you had a dollar in your pocket, there were twentyfive
other White Eyes men who wanted to put their hands upon it.

Delgado was better educated than he let on, but he couldn't discuss intellectual matters with other Apaches. Sometimes Delgado thought that his soul had been polluted by education. Occasionally he suspected that his Apache brethren were ignorant and simple-minded. He hated his American education yet was fascinated by what he'd learned.

He was a man of many conflicts, and if that wasn't enough, his thoughts often turned to Phyllis Thornton, the pretty White Eyes girl with the big bosom. He confessed to himself that he was in love with her, or possibly in lust with her, he wasn't sure. He could kill Braddock easily but that would be a disgrace, for Duane was a paltry White Eyes boy. Delgado steadfastly refrained from flirting with Phyllis because Apaches were prudes. If Phyllis left Duane, then I could get her, but I don't think she has the courage to leave him.

He knew that she was interested in him and yearned to have him place his bronzed hands on her smooth white flesh. He'd show her the other side of the moon, but she was afraid, and so was he. Delgado didn't want to behave like a fool, and the best way to avoid embarrassment was to live according to the ancient lifeway. But if Duane fell off the side of a mountain, Delgado would shed no tears.

He heard footsteps, and a voice called, “Delgado.”

“Come in.”

The animal flap wiggled, and a slim Apache named Akul appeared. “We have seen bluecoat soldiers, and they got many horses, with much weapons and ammunition. They appear lost, and their guard is not vigilant.” Akul smiled greedily. “I think that we should take the horses from the bluecoat soldiers.”

Delgado puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. “Keep your eyes on them, but look for the renegades, too. Sooner or later evil Jamata will have to go out and then we will catch him.”

Akul departed as Delgado meditated upon the lack of news about Jamata's renegades. Delgado's beloved older sister had been killed by them, and the renegades had demonstrated their contempt for the People, the lifeway, the chief, and Delgado. The dead must be avenged, and I will skin Jamata alive someday, he swore. Delgado's warriors were scouring the mountains, searching for the renegades, but they'd found a lost wandering detachment of cavalry instead.

Horses represented wealth to an Apache, and that didn't include guns, ammunition, and other valuable articles. But what were the bluecoats doing in such an obscure corner of the desert? They are crazy, but soon they will learn the lesson of the desert, he thought.

It was sunset when Duane and the boys returned to the camp. He entered his wickiup; the skins and furs
smelled like home, and he reclined, closing his eyes and smiling with satisfaction. His lessons were going well, and he thought that he'd found the Garden of Eden in the mountains of southwest Texas. The children had taught him how to trap small animals for food, an arcane skill more valuable than anything he'd learned in the monastery in the clouds. Then Cucharo had shown him the subtle points of tracking, and now Duane could describe everything that had happened on the ground during the past twenty-four hours. I'm not leaving this place until I know everything the Apaches know. Then I'll never have to worry about dying in the desert.

The animal flap was thrust to the side, and Phyllis crawled into the wickiup. Her clothing had become shredded like his, and her legs could be seen through tears in her jeans. Her skin was deeply tanned, she wore an Apache headband and looked tawny wild. “I keep telling you that I want to leave,” she began, “and you keep putting me off. We've been with the Apaches for nearly a month, and I think it's time that we set a date for hitting the trail. We're Americans—remember?”

“But I love this life, and you've never looked better. C'mere.”

She pushed him away. “If you loved me, you'd take me out of here.”

Leaving had become her favorite subject, and she sang the same tune over and over. “I guess the work is too hard for you.”

“It goes deeper than work. You're seeing these Apaches as something that they're not. Don't forget that war and killing is their way of life, and they can be extremely brutal. Yesterday I saw a woman with her nose cut off because she was unfaithful to her husband. Huera told me that if a woman has twins, her husband has to kill one of them because that's what their beautiful holy lifeway commands them to do.”

“I never said they were angels, but things aren't so great in the White Eyes world either. I've read in newspapers that babies are killed by rats in big cities, or poisoned with milk from cows that're fed garbage. What's worse?”

She looked him in the eye. “If I had twins, would you kill one of them?”

Duane didn't like the tone of her voice. His beautiful desert princess was becoming a nag, and it wasn't so long ago that she'd loved him without question. “I could never kill my twin son or daughter, and I certainly sympathize with any woman who had her nose cut off, but I'm learning interesting new things from the Apaches, I feel better than ever, and tomorrow Cucharo is taking me into the mountains for a few days of special teaching.”

Phyllis scowled as she sensed another betrayal. “In other words, our stay with the Apaches has just been extended. Sometimes I think you love that old man more than me. Well, I'm an American, and I want to get the hell out of here!”

“Perhaps you can go home without me, and I'll follow when things settle down.”

“Maybe I should've left you tied to that wheel. Your mind is open to every stupid idea that comes along. I'm afraid that something terrible will happen if we stay here. What if the chief dies? Apaches aren't the best hosts in the world for White Eyes.”

He kissed her cheek. “Nothing's going to happen because that old chief is probably healthier than we. I'll bet we're safer here than at the Bar T.”

She gazed meaningfully into his eyes. “Just remember one thing, Duane. When the trouble starts, don't say you weren't warned.”

It was pitch-black in the desert as clouds obscured the moon and stars. The soldiers huddled around their bonfire, chewing on a family of javelinas that they'd shot before the sun went down. Tents were pitched and horses tethered to the picket line, guarded by four troopers at each corner of the compass.

Lieutenant Dawes sat by himself, studying his map in the light of the fire. He knew that he was somewhere south of the Pecos, deep in Apache territory, and his men were rebellious.

They were tired of living in the open, worried constantly about the next water hole. But Lieutenant Dawes was drawing a map based on his observations, with special marks for water holes. He'd send a copy
to Colonel MacKenzie at Fort Richardson, to show what an intelligent and diligent officer he was. Perhaps I should write about local flora and fauna for scientific journals. A desert isn't just sand but a symphony of life and colors. Every day he saw more smoke signals on the mountaintops as his movements were transmitted from tribe to tribe.

The Apaches knew where he was, but he didn't know where they were. Lieutenant Dawes gnawed on a chunk of wild pig as he conceived new tactics for fighting Apaches. Special detachments would be trained to live like Indians in small roving bands. Their job would be to hunt redskins relentlessly and force them out of Texas. Then the land could be opened for commerce and towns would grow around water holes that now sit alone in the desert.

Land in southwest Texas is cheap, Lieutenant Dawes speculated, but if the Apaches were driven out, it would rise in value. Fortunes are being made every day in the new postwar America, and if I plan now, I can be a rich man someday. He'd already inherited a substantial sum from his grandfather, who'd been a banker, and it was being invested in stocks and bonds by a Wall Street brokerage firm. But land is the best investment of all, he figured. One day Texas will be covered with cattle, cities, and roads. Nothing can stop America now.

He heard footsteps as Sergeant Mahoney approached, his rusty beard dotted with bits of wild
pig. Mahoney didn't bother saluting as he dropped to one knee beside Lieutenant Dawes. “The men told me to tell you that they want to return to camp, sir.”

Lieutenant Dawes folded the map. “I don't care what they want. They
will
obey my lawful orders.”

Sergeant Mahoney leaned closer and said in a low voice, “Sir, I don't think you know what's a-goin' on here. They're a-gittin' mad as hornets, and they all got guns.”

“America wouldn't have much of an army if soldiers told their officers what to do.”

“There's a time to go by the book, and a time to use some common sense, sir. You been in the sun too long.”

Lieutenant Dawes narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying that I've gone loco?”

“I've been a soldier fer eighteen years, and I ain't never seen a scout like this. But I warned you about the men, and that's the best I can do. From now on, I ain't responsible.”

It was midnight when Marshal Stowe returned semi-inebriated to his hotel. The lobby was bathed in the golden effulgence of oil lamps, illuminating the clerk and a few drunks passed out on sofas and chairs. The lawman shambled toward the clerk, rested his elbow on the counter, and said in a low voice, “I'm ready for one of the gals.”

“I'll send her to your room, Marshal.”

“Want to pick her myself, if you don't mind.”

“Right this way.”

The clerk led him down a corridor, across a hall, and to a dark door without a number. The clerk knocked, the door opened, and a woman with a garishly painted face stood in the crack.

“A customer,” the clerk said.

The door opened wide, and the woman grabbed Marshal Stowe's sleeve. “Come on in, cowboy. Don't be afraid.”

Then she saw the tin badge, and her confidence faltered. Marshal Stowe figured that she'd probably spent time behind bars during her career, but he smiled genially as he followed her into a crowd of women drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and waiting for the next customer. Some were American, others Mexican, with a few in between.

“Which one you want?” the madam asked.

“I like to take my time.”

“Juanita, get the marshal a glass of whiskey.”

The marshal dropped into a chair and felt suddenly dispirited. Why'm I always sleeping with whores? he asked himself. He recalled lovely, graceful Vanessa Dawes, practically a different species from the women before him.

They looked as if life had used them hard, and they used it in the same way. They earned their daily bread selling their bodies to the highest bidder, and
when they grew too old to attract customers, they begged on the streets. Disease was the plague of their lives, and frequently they were shot or knifed by irate customers. It was difficult for the marshal to feel romantic, but he considered abstinence unhealthy.

So he looked for one who wasn't too fat, skinny, or old, without a broken nose, and not completely toothless. He noticed such a whore sitting in the corner, somehow sad beneath her thick layers of cosmetics. He raised his finger and pointed. “Her.”

“That is Teresa. You have made a wise choice, Marshal. Go to your room, and she will be right there.”

Marshal Stowe clomped down the maze of corridors and became disoriented midway. Finally, after walking into a few walls, he arrived at his door, drew his gun, listened, and then stepped into the small enclosed space. He searched for a bushwhacker beneath the bed, locked the door, took off his hat, lay in bed, and closed his eyes. The Remington remained in his right hand.

He thought of the hunchback midget half-breed Miguelito. If the freak could locate Phyllis Thornton—what a bonanza. It would be nice to see Trafalgar Square at dawn, or watch the sun set over the white cliffs of Folkestone. All my dreams will come true if I can find Phyllis Thornton.

But he didn't trust Miguelito. The half-breed had shifty eyes, and what could you say about a man who
sold whiskey and guns to the Apaches? I shouldn't have anything to do with people like that, the lawman told himself, but it's the only way to get to England.

He didn't dare let his guard down with Miguelito because the half-breed would betray him for horses, guns, and the shirt on his back. But if Miguelito can find Phyllis Thornton, I'll play his game. Life's greatest blessings never come easy.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Teresa entered the room, fluttering her eyelashes ridiculously, evidently inexperienced at her work, but it didn't matter to the lonely lawman. “Wash that shit off your face,” he ordered. “Then take off your clothes and come to bed.”