ChasetheLightning (19 page)

“I didn’t. Relámpago did. When we got close to where you
were, he stopped and refused to move again until I got off. Then he went to
you, and I followed him. It was so…so spooky, the way the wind came up, and
their fire went out.” She shivered at the memory. “And that mist…if I hadn’t
seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. Are you sure you’re all right?” She held
his bloody hands up to the moonlight. He winced.

“That's not mine,” he said. “It’s from the deer I was
cleaning when they got the drop on me. They kicked me around some.” He didn’t
tell her why. “I’m more aggravated than anything. Damn, I must be losing my
edge, to let a pair of no-account drifters catch me flatfooted like that. Not
only do they have our supper, but they’ve got my gun and my knife, too.” He
swore softly.

“What happened?” Amanda asked, dropping down beside him.

“Those two drifters were set up on a waterhole waiting for
meat. I walked right into them.”

“What do we do now?”

“We ride,” he said grimly. “There’s going to be plenty of
moon to see by, and I don't want them catching up to us. We’ll bed down after
we put some ground between them and us.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“No time to worry about that. Saddle up.”

She nodded. They’d be helpless to defend themselves, now
that the miners had Trey’s weapons. She knew he was blaming himself for being
caught off guard, but it could have happened to anyone.

They rode for several hours, until her head was swimming
with fatigue. The stallion moved tirelessly, his white coat seeming to shimmer
with an other-worldly light.

When Trey finally called a halt in a dense stand of
mesquite, he allowed her to remove his shirt and examine his rib cage. He
shrugged off her concern about his swollen lip and the bruise on his jaw. But
he flinched when she probed his ribs.

“We need to wrap ‘em up tight,” he said. “So I can keep
moving. But…”

“I know. I’ve seen plenty of Westerns.” she said with a
grin. Going to her saddlebags, she pulled out her petticoat. “Instant
bandages,” she said, and ripped off the bottom ruffle.

He nodded. “Smart.” He winced as she wrapped the strip of
sturdy cotton around his middle. “That’s it, good and tight. Can you unsaddle
the horses and make up the bed? I hate to ask it…”

She placed her fingers against his swollen lip. “Shh, don’t
worry. I'll take care of it.”

She unsaddled the horses and turned Relámpago loose.
Dragging the heavy saddles into place and spreading the blankets took the last
iota of her strength. She made Trey as comfortable as she could, then stretched
out beside him.

Lying there, with her head pillowed on a saddle, she stared
at Relámpago through heavy-lidded eyes. Maybe the stallion really was a ghost
horse. And if that was so, then maybe he was the best protection they could
have. It was her last thought before sleep claimed her.

* * * * *

She woke to a ravenous hunger. A drink from the canteen and
a piece of the store-bought jerky helped a little, but not much. She looked
over at Trey. He was still asleep. Not a good sign, since he usually woke
before she did.

Rising, she glanced around as she stretched the kinks from
her back and neck. They were sitting ducks out here, and even as the thought
crossed her mind, she saw two riders in the distance.

“Trey?” She shook his arm gently. “Trey, wake up.”

He jackknifed into a sitting position, swore as pain lanced
through him.

He wrapped one arm around his middle, his breath coming in
painful gasps. “What is it?”

She pointed toward the west. “Riders. Come on,” she urged,
offering him her hand. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

He climbed heavily to his feet. Amanda had the gelding
saddled and was smoothing the blanket over Relámpago’s back when she noticed
Trey staring hard at the oncoming riders.

“Trey…?”

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling.

“How can you be sure it’s not those two men?” Amanda asked,
glancing over her shoulder.

“I’ve got eyes is how,” he said.

“Are you sure? “

His smile widened. “I’m sure. “

Seeing his expression, Amanda frowned. “What are you smiling
at? It might be…”

“It might be anyone, up to and including Langley—but it
ain’t. Help is on the way.”

“Help?” Turning, she stared at the two men riding toward
them. They were close enough now for her to make out details.

Two men dressed in breechclouts and knee-high moccasins; men
with feathers in their hair, and paint on their faces.

Indians.

She took a step backward, her heart pounding loudly in her
ears. They had dark copper-colored skin, ink black hair, and deep-set dark
eyes. Barrel-chested, they were powerfully built, with well-muscled arms and
legs. One wore an amulet suspended from a slender strip of rawhide around his
neck. Both were armed with bows and arrows and leading saddled horses. And both
were carrying rifles.

Draped across the withers of the lead rider’s horse were the
hindquarters of a deer, its hooves visible below a bloody hide. The second
rider wore a familiar gunbelt cinched around his lean waist.

They came to a stop a few feet in front of Trey, their
expressions impassive but not hostile.

Amanda stood rooted to the spot, listening as the three men
spoke in a language she didn’t understand. One of the Indians gestured at her,
and there was a rapid exchange, with both of the Indians glancing at her from
time to time.

The second rider slipped gracefully from his mount,
unbuckled the gunbelt and handed it to Trey, who buckled it in place, then nodded
his thanks.

“I take it they’re friends of yours?” she said.

“Yeah. This one here is Elk Runner. He says I never could
stay out of trouble long, and it’s a good thing I’ve got a medicine horse and a
white woman to look after me. That’s his cousin, Two Horses.”

“They…they were there?”

“Not last night. They cut our sign early this morning.”

He didn’t have to tell her they’d also found the two white
men, as well. The fact that they had Trey’s gunbelt and two horses carrying
brands proved that. She didn’t ask what had happened to the men.

“Looks like our luck has changed,” Trey said with a wry
grin.

The young detective from the Sheriff’s Office stood in front
of Rob’s desk. He was dressed like a prosperous cattleman in a Western cut suit
and polished black cowboy boots. Like many Arizonans, he wore a bolo tie, this
one secured by a turquoise stone set in silver. He twisted the brim of his
white Stetson in his big hands. “We're plumb out of leads, Rob.”

Rob leaned back in the big leather chair behind his desk,
which was laden with case files. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Sam. If
there was anything to find, you’d have found it.”

“You'll let us know if you hear anything from her?”

“You bet. But I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I understand.” The detective shifted from one foot to the
other. “I’d better be going…I’ll keep in touch.”

“Thanks, Sam. I owe you.”

After the detective was gone, Rob sat staring at Amanda’s
address book, neatly squared atop the active files on the desk. He had called
everyone in the book, persisting until he had contacted every one of them, but
no one had heard from her since that day he had been out at her house. She had
missed her appointment at the dentist; she hadn’t started her new job, she
hadn’t returned her mother’s phone calls.

He glanced out the window, wondering if the yellow
crime-scene tape was still draped around her porch and the front yard.

The sheriff’s crime-scene team had been very thorough. They
had found the boot tracks of four separate men in and around the scene, and
taken casts of them all. They had good casts of the strange tire prints. And
they had recovered enough blood from the stains in the yard to ensure a match
if they ever came up with a viable suspect.

Using metal detectors, they had dug four slugs out of
various walls. One of those had been soft lead, badly deformed, as if it had
punched through something or somebody before coming to rest in the barn door.
The forensics people were curious about its conformation, and especially
curious about a couple of boxes of .45 cartridges they had found in the house:
pristine pasteboard cartridge boxes, one full, the other almost so. The
printing on the boxes named a cartridge company that didn’t exist. Pulling
apart one of the rounds had proved it matched the information printed on the
box: a black-powder round.

Remembering the perfectly preserved six-gun Trey Long Walker
had shown him, Rob had kept his own counsel. The man clearly carried his Old
West hobby to extremes that most of the Single Action Shooting Sports
aficionados did not. Preliminary research on Rob’s part had determined that
yes, some cartridge companies printed old-fashioned looking boxes for
reenactment fans, but if these boxes had been printed by such a company, there would
be a legitimate address somewhere on them. Had Long Walker loaded the rounds
himself, and had the boxes printed with a fake address? That was an idea Rob
wasn't willing to share with the authorities. Not yet.

Then there was the stash of well-preserved old money the
detectives had found in Amanda’s bedroom. If it was authentic, that money was
worth far more than its face value in modern dollars. If it wasn’t—again, Long
Walker had gone to extremes; the kind of presses that could handle such a
specialized printing job shouldn’t be too hard to find. He would start in
Montana.

Normally, such anomalous material at a crime scene would
have been marked as evidence and taken in, but the case was too off-center.
Since Rob was well known to the local authorities, they had agreed to let him
take custody of the cash, for the time being. Amanda’s parents had agreed with
that decision.

Her mother had flown out, stayed a few days, and left in
tears.

Her father called every day, asking Rob if any progress had
been made. Time and again, Rob had walked out to where the horse’s hoofprints
disappeared, and the truck had turned back. He had plucked a long strand of
white hair from a chest-high shrub and wrapped it around his finger. Where had
the horse gone? Why had its tracks vanished in plain sight? Or, maybe the
question was how? It was as if the stud had taken wing.

The sheriff’s office had run Long Walker through its
computers and come up blank. There was no driver’s license on him in Montana.
He had never served in the military. He didn’t even have a Social Security
card.

It was as if the cowboy had materialized out of thin air.

Just like the white stallion had, according to Amanda.

He leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. The
noise of traffic from the busy Tucson street below his window filtered into his
consciousness. The horse had appeared, and then the cowboy had shown up, and
then something had happened out there, something violent. Now horse and
cowboy—and Amanda—had vanished off the face of the earth.

He was missing something. Something right in front of his
face. He frowned thoughtfully. He was supposed to be a man-hunter—one of the
best. It was in his blood. But he needed a trail, a lead, something to start
on.

Those bank notes and the cartridge boxes… It was time to do
some research.

He spun his chair around to face his computer screen, tugged
the keyboard out of the drawer, and logged onto the Internet.

They were on their way to Bonita Canyon. It was a favorite
Apache stronghold, Trey told her. Located off a tributary of the Gila River, it
was an ideal hideout, hard to find, easy to defend.

The Indians had offered them jerky and cakes made of ground
acorns. Amanda had eaten beef jerky before, but it had never tasted like this.
When she remarked on it, Trey told her it was made from buffalo, not beef.

And now she rode beside him, feeling somewhat distant from
it all, as if she were watching everything through someone else’s eyes. How
could this be happening? What was she doing here, in the middle of nowhere?

She glanced at Trey. He rode slightly slumped forward in the
saddle, one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. A fine sheen of
perspiration dampened his brow, his jaw was rigid with discomfort. In the light
of day, she could see he did, indeed, have a black eye, and it was a beaut.

The two warriors rode ahead of them. She had the feeling
that they were aware of every plant, every lizard, every grain of sand. They
were a fearsome looking pair. She kept reminding herself that they were Trey’s
people, Trey’s friends. But they looked so…so…ferocious was the only word that
came to mind. Their hair was shoulder length, thick and black and coarse. Their
clouts were made of some kind of animal skin that reached to the knee, front
and back; their moccasins reached to mid-thigh, to protect their legs from
prickly brush and cactus she supposed. One of the warriors had folded his
moccasins down to just below the knee. She thought it curious that the toes of
the moccasins curled up on the ends.

Amanda shifted her weight in the saddle. They had been
riding for several hours, following the river. Now, the warriors turned off
into a pass that Trey said led to the stronghold. High canyon walls rose up all
around. Trees were few. She saw scrub brush, mesquite, creosote bushes, Saguaro
cactus and Palo Verde. The Saguaro was the state flower, if she remembered
right. Some of the plants were huge, standing over forty feet high. Almost as
ancient as Sequoias, she seemed to remember.

The Indians followed a bend in the river and suddenly they
were at the mouth of the canyon. Amanda stared in wonder at the brush-covered
wickiups spread in the shelter of the high canyon walls. It was a peaceful
scene. Dogs slept in the sun. A large herd of horses grazed on bunch grass in
the distance. She saw several boys shooting arrows at a target; a couple of
boys were wrestling while a handful of others looked on. She saw young girls
playing with dolls made of corn husks and deerskin, others were making animals
and houses out of mud. Primitive Play-Doh, she thought with a grin. She saw a
group of children swimming in the river, while women with babies sat on the
bank, keeping watch. Men sat in small groups, working on weapons, talking,
gambling. Women throughout the camp were cooking, sewing, nursing their young,
scraping hides. The men were clad in little more than breechclouts and
moccasins; they wore a band of cloth around their heads to keep their hair out
of their faces. The women wore fringed dresses of deerskin that fell past their
knees. Their moccasins seemed less durable than those worn by the men, and
reached only a little above the ankle. The children wore hardly anything at
all.

Elk Runner and Two Horses stopped in front of a hut that was
circular in shape and covered with brush. Smoke curled from a hole in the
middle of the roof. A deer hide covered the doorway, which was low.

Elk Runner spoke to Trey and then the two Apaches moved on.

Amanda glanced around, aware that many of the Indians had
stopped what they were doing and were now watching them, their dark eyes alight
with curiosity.

“What’s going on?” Amanda asked.

Moving slowly, Trey dismounted. “This is my grandmother’s
wickiup.”

“Oh.” She looked at the dwelling again. It wasn’t very
large, perhaps twelve feet by eight. “Are they expecting you?”

“I don’t know,” Trey replied. “Grandfather always seemed to
know when I was…”

He paused as a man stepped out of the wickiup. He was of
medium height, broad-shouldered and virile looking in spite of the gray in his
hair and the deep-cut lines in his face.

“Long Walker,” he said. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you. Grandfather, this is Amanda. Amanda, this is my
grandfather, Walker on the Wind.”

The old Apache looked up at Amanda through knowing, dark
eyes. “You are welcome in my lodge,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied. Conscious of the old man’s
scrutiny, she dismounted and stood beside Trey.

“So,” the old man said, turning his gaze back to Trey.
“Relámpago has brought you safely home.”

Trey nodded. “Just as you promised.”

Walker on the Wind called to a teenage boy and instructed
him to look after the horses, then turned toward Trey. “Come,” he said. “Let us
eat.”

The old man ducked back inside his lodge. Trey followed him,
and after a moment’s hesitation, Amanda followed Trey.

It was dim inside. A small fire pit was located in the
middle of the wickiup.

An old woman with long gray braids sat beside the fire. A
smile lit her face when she saw Trey.

“Long Walker,” she said.

Walker on the Wind helped the old woman to her feet. She
laid a gnarled hand on Trey’s cheek, her gaze moving lovingly over his face.

“You are hurt,” she remarked, noting the way he kept his arm
curved around his middle.

Trey nodded. “I think I broke a rib, maybe two.” He glanced
at Amanda over the older woman’s head. “This is my grandmother, Yellow Calf
Woman. Grandmother, this is Amanda.”

Yellow Calf Woman nodded. “A-manda. Welcome to my lodge.”

“Thank you.”

“You, sit,” Yellow Calf Woman said to Trey.

Trey did as he was told, then held his hand out to Amanda.
“Sit with me.”

She did as he asked, watching as his grandmother helped him
out of his shirt, and then removed the strips of cloth wound around his middle.

Yellow Calf Woman ran her hands over his back, speaking to
him in rapid Apache.

“What did she say?” Amanda asked.

“She wanted to know who shot me,” Trey answered. “She also
said my ribs aren’t broken, just badly bruised.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Trey grunted softly, then clasped her hand in his while
Yellow Calf Woman ran her fingers lightly over his rib cage, spread a
sweet-smelling ointment over his side, then wrapped a strip of rawhide tightly
around his middle.

“Geez, Grandmother,” he muttered in English, “leave me some
room to breathe.”

When Yellow Calf Woman had finished tending Trey’s injuries,
she offered Trey and Amanda each a bowl of thick stew and a spoon made of horn.

Amanda looked at the contents of the bowl, and then looked
at Trey.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s venison.”

They ate in silence. Amanda kept her gaze on the bowl in her
hand, aware that she was very much out of place in this place. More than
anything, she wanted to be back in her own time, in her own house. In her own
bathtub. She couldn’t recall ever being quite so grimy, so in need of bathing.
She wasn’t sure, but she was afraid she smelled bad.

Yellow Calf Woman sat down beside the fire again; Walker on
the Wind sat across from his wife. He pulled a pipe from a buckskin bag, filled
the bowl with tobacco, lit it with a coal from the fire, and then lifted the
pipe to the four directions.

She couldn’t help but wonder if the smoke was meant to mask
her body odor. Perhaps later, when she was alone with Trey, she would ask if
there was someplace where she could take a bath and wash her clothes.

When they finished eating, Yellow Calf Woman collected their
dishes and took them outside. A small spotted puppy emerged from the shadows in
the back of the lodge and followed her out the door.

Trey let out a long, weary sigh. Every movement sent slivers
of pain lancing though his left side.

Walker on the Wind leaned forward. “You need rest, my son.
Yellow Calf Woman has prepared a lodge for the two of you.”

A cold shiver tiptoed down Amanda’s spine at the old man’s
words.

“
Ashoge
,
Shinale
,” Trey replied.

Walker on the Wind smiled. “You will find your lodge behind
this one. Go, rest. We will talk later.”

With a nod, Trey climbed slowly to his feet.

Amanda stood and followed Trey outside. She blinked against
the light of the sun, stood a moment, basking in its warmth, unable to shake the
feeling that she was caught up in the Twilight Zone.

“Are you coming?” Trey called.

“Yes.” She hurried after him. He was, after all, the only
familiar thing in this strange new world.

The wickiup that had been prepared for them was almost
exactly like the one that belonged to his grandparents.

Amanda stood inside the doorway, her arms folded over her
chest, while Trey lowered himself down on a pile of soft-looking furs.

“How did he know?” she asked. “How did your grandfather know
you were coming here? That
we
were coming here?”

“He’s a
diyini
,” Trey replied. “A holy man. He often
has visions that foretell the future.”

“Your grandfather mentioned that Relámpago had brought you
safely home. Did he work some kind of Indian magic to bring us here?”

Trey closed his eyes. “I don’t know. But he always said
’Pago had magic powers to take me away from danger.”

She remembered her dream of a white horse and a warrior who
resembled Trey. “How old is Relámpago?”

He shrugged. “He was full-grown when I was a little boy. He
doesn’t seem to age very fast, though. He could always out-run any horse in the
tribe.”

She turned her thoughts to a more pressing concern. “How
long are we going to stay here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you know?”

“I know that I hurt all over.”

She let out a sigh. “Of course you do. I’m sorry.”

“Well, don’t lose any sleep over it,” he muttered wearily.
“It’s not your fault.”

While she considered a reply, he fell asleep.

With a sigh, Amanda went to the door, lifted the flap and
peered outside.

Dusk had come to the canyon, though the afternoon sun still
burnished the high cliffs. Cook fires blazed in front of the wickiups;
mouth-watering odors drifted on the lazy campfire smoke. Mothers called to
their children, warriors brought their favorites horses in from the herd and
picketed them close to their lodges. Dogs fought over scraps of meat. Three old
men sat together, sharing a pipe, oblivious to the activity around them.

Standing there, watching the Apaches get ready for the
night, she felt an overwhelming wave of loneliness. She would never belong
here. Never. The wickiup suddenly seemed too small and she stepped outside. No
one paid her any attention as she walked away from the camp toward a clump of
trees growing along a narrow winding stream. She walked along the edge of the
water, following it away from the camp. The Indian horse herd grazed nearby.
They lifted their heads as she drew near, ears twitching, nostrils flaring as
they took in her strange scent. Relámpago was the only white horse in the herd,
and easy to spot.

She smiled as the big stallion trotted toward her. He rubbed
his forehead against her chest, begging to have his ears scratched.

“Guess I’m not totally alone,” she murmured. “Not as long as
you’re here.”

The stallion made a soft snuffling sound in reply.

She stood there for several minutes, her gaze moving over
the floor of the canyon and up the sides while she scratched the stallion’s
ears. Surely there were sentries posted, but if so, she couldn’t see any. Then
again, there was only one way in and one way out. If any sentries were posted,
they were most likely at the mouth of the canyon.

She ran her hand along the stallion’s neck. If she rode out
of the canyon while Trey was sleeping, would anyone try to stop her? She wasn’t
a prisoner, after all.

She thought about it a few more minutes. It was a risk,
riding out alone, but a risk she was willing to take, since Trey had made it
clear he wouldn’t take her back to her own time. And she had to get back! She
just had to, before it was too late. Before Trey became more important to her
than he already was. Before it became impossible to leave him. She swallowed
hard. She was already falling in love with him. She had to go while she could,
before he broke her heart.

Stepping up on a rock, she climbed onto the stallion’s back,
grabbed a handful of mane, and drummed her heels against the stallion’s flanks.
The horse moved out smartly, guided by the pressure of her knees.

She took the long way around the camp, skirting the far
edge. It was dusk as she drew nearer to the canyon entrance. So far, so good. A
few children had seen her pass by. They had stared at her curiously, but done
nothing to stop her.

It was almost full dark and her heart was pounding wildly by
the time she reached the canyon entrance. And still no one had made a move to
stop her.

She was heady with relief when, for no apparent reason, the
stallion came to an abrupt halt. Amanda looked around, searching for whatever
it was that had brought Relámpago to a stop, but there was nothing to see.

“Come on, boy.” She clucked to the horse. “Come on, let’s
go.”

With a shake of his head, the stallion backed up.

“No!” Amanda drummed her heels into the horse’s flanks. She
was so close! “Come on,” she coaxed. “Let’s go.” She smacked the horse on the
rump with the flat of her hand. “Come on! Take me home!”

The stallion’s ears went flat as it slowly rose up on its
hind legs. With a startled cry, Amanda slid over the horse’s hindquarters and
landed on her backside, hard. For a moment, she just sat there, too stunned to
move, and then she became aware of a sharp pain in the region of her tailbone.