Dorothy Garlock (33 page)

“Don’t you worry none about that. I ain’t a-makin’ a move or openin’ my yap.”

As they rode toward the camp they heard dogs barking and children shouting. Unpleasant smells from the cookfires assailed their nostrils. From everywhere people came running to see the white visitors. A group of mounted braves charged forward, yipping, and encircled the wagon. They wore breechcloths and leggings, and their hair hung to their shoulders. Twisted bands of cloth were wrapped around their heads.

All sounds stopped suddenly, as if from a signal, Burr thought. The riders ceased yipping, the children, shy and silent, peeped at them from behind the women. There was only the sound of a single dog barking frantically, and then, after a loud yip, it too became silent. Some of the Indians gathered around the wagon, while others lined the route they would take to reach the chief. Hundreds of curious black eyes stared at the white men.

Burr and Mooney kept their eyes straight ahead, focused on the lodge in the middle of the camp. Mooney moved the mules to within a few yards of the big lodge and pulled them to a halt. Burr jumped down, and the crowd fell back. He strode forward to meet the chief, and the two men shook hands. The Indian was large, with a muscular body and flat belly. His hair was streaked with gray and fell unbound to his shoulders. His head was bare, but he needed no elaborate headdress. His majestic bearing alone distinguished him from the others.

“I greet my friend, chief of the Chiricahua Apaches,” Burr said solemnly in Spanish.

“Greetings, Sky Eyes.” The old Indian’s voice held authority.

“I bring gifts from the house of stone, as I have done each time you pass this way. It is payment for the use of your land.”

The old man nodded and went to the wagon to look at the supplies. The crowd moved back when he waved his hand. He grunted his satisfaction and raised his hand to beckon the three chieftains lined up in front of his lodge. They came forward and Burr extended his hand. They shook it stoically. The chieftains talked together in low tones and poked and prodded the bags in the back of the wagon.

Burr stood at the head of the mules and tried to read the mood of the crowd. The women and children looked well fed, but there was a tenseness in their quiet faces, an attitude of expectancy. The warriors stood in groups. Those with rifles proudly displayed them in their folded arms. One cluster showed open hostility toward him . . . and one brave in the group more so than the others. He strutted back and forth spouting bitter words, his fierce eyes never leaving Burr’s face. Burr looked at him boldly and allowed a flicker of contempt to show in his expression. The uneasiness he had felt all along escalated. Gray Cloud was showing too much resentment to back down. His pride would force him into action. Burr sensed what was to come. His muscles tensed and his mouth became dry.

One of the chieftains hefted the keg of powder from the wagon and pried open the lid. Smiles appeared on their faces, and they gathered about the small keg and talked in excited tones. On a word from the chief, a warrior came forward and carried the keg into the big lodge. He spoke again, and a group of braves started unloading the wagon, then he went to stand in front of Burr.

“You brought no rifles.”

“I brought powder. The bluecoats would chase me from your land if I came with rifles.” Burr knew that every eye was on him, and he looked straight into the fiercely proud eyes of the old man. “I have rifles to hunt food and to protect myself from Mexican
bandidos.
”

The old man nodded and looked away at last. “We will smoke,” he said.

Burr moved over to the wagon, where Mooney sat like a statue. He leaned over and made extra work of lifting a small bag from under the seat so he could speak.

“Stay on the wagon, but watch that bunch on your left. If they come at you, yell out like you’re yelling at the mules.”

Burr took the bag to the circle that was forming in front of the chief’s lodge and handed it to the chief before he sat down. The Indian sniffed at the bag, and his eyes lit up with pleasure.

“The tobacco comes from over the mountain. I will have more when you return in the spring.”

A group of warriors came into the circle and sat cross-legged on the ground. Others sat close by and listened. The women and children dispersed, and the sounds of children playing, dogs barking, and women scolding could be heard once again.

The chief picked up a long pipe decorated with feathers and took several long puffs before passing it to Burr. He took a puff and passed it on. The pipe made a complete round of the circle. When it came back to the chief he carefully placed it on the ground in front of him. He looked directly at Burr and said in fluent Spanish, “You bring people to our land?”

“No. I do not want more people to come and spoil your land.”

There was an ominous murmur, but Burr kept his eyes on the old man. The chief raised his hand for silence, and all were instantly quiet. He lifted the pipe to his lips with dignity, puffed, and passed it again to Burr. After he passed it on, Burr searched the faces in the circle. Black Buffalo was there, as well as Gray Cloud, whose eyes burned with passionate hate. When the pipe passed, Black Buffalo stood up, signaling his wish to speak when the ceremonial pipe completed the round.

When the pipe was returned, the chief once again placed it on the ground in front of him, then nodded to Black Buffalo.

Black Buffalo spoke in the guttural tongue of the Apache. From the tone of his voice Burr knew he was enraged. The longer he talked the angrier he got. The chief listened without looking at him. He was handed another pipe, which he puffed for a moment before handing it to Burr. Black Buffalo continued to talk, and the men listened and smoked.

Finally the chief lifted his hand in an impatient gesture and Black Buffalo fell silent. The chief turned to Burr.

“Black Buffalo say you have stolen one of his wives. She has been gone from his lodge for two sunsets. He wants her back or you come with six ponies.”

“Which one of his wives is missing?” Burr asked gravely.

“The most beautiful of all his wives,” the chief said. “The one that gladens his heart the most. His third wife.”

Burr looked straight into the dark eyes of the chief. “I have bartered with Black Buffalo and I have seen his third wife. If I steal a woman it will not be one who has been beaten until her spirit is broken, whose skin has been pierced many times, and whose body has been starved until there is no fat.”

Burr thought he saw a glint of amusement in the old chief’s eyes before he turned his head and gravely repeated the words to Black Buffalo. The Indian almost jumped with anger as he listened to his chief. He opened his mouth to reply but was silenced by a sharp word from the old man.

The warrior Gray Cloud, who showed such open hostility toward him, sprang to his feet and began to talk. He addressed his words to all in the circle as well as to the chief. His angry bright eyes and his sneering face often turned toward Burr, and at times he pointed his fist toward him and spat. Several men in the circle added remarks, and a few nodded in agreement with what the brave was saying. They were arguing about him; Burr knew this without understanding their words. The skin on the back of his neck tightened. He looked fleetingly at the chief, who was smoking calmly, his face expressionless.

Several braves behind the angry speaker got to their feet and began to dance. Burr’s seemingly calm blue eyes found Mooney. The old cowboy sat stone-still, his coat pulled away from his weapons. The dancers began to chant.

“Heya . . . a . . . a . . . heya!”

An excited warrior leaped up brandishing a bow. The excitement was catching; more warriors jumped to their feet. The speaker looked gloatingly at Burr, who considered for a moment making a dash for the wagon and the rifle hidden in the compartment beneath Mooney’s feet. He wished he knew what the chief was thinking.

Geronimo got to his feet. The speaker didn’t wish to stop, but the chief raised his hand and the Indian stepped back, his face sullen and resentful. Geronimo spoke in dispassionate tones, his words rolling out calmly and confidently. He talked for several minutes while the circle of men and the dancers grew quiet. The chief nodded as he listened. The ugly little man stood with feet braced apart, and it seemed as if he had issued some sort of challenge to Gray Cloud, who drew himself up to his full height and looked down contemptuously at Burr then drew his knife from his belt and sank the blade into the earth.

Geronimo turned to Burr and spoke in halting Spanish. “Gray Cloud wishes to kill all the paleskins in the valley. He has braves who will follow him. If you fight him and kill him, you go in peace to bring blankets and tobacco and powder when we come this way again. If he kills you, we go to the house of stone and take what you have.”

Burr got slowly to his feet. All eyes were on him. He felt a flash of elation. It was better than he had feared—at least he had a chance. He drew his knife from his belt and with a flick of his wrist sank it into the ground between Gray Cloud’s feet. The Indian’s eyes burned hotly.

Geronimo drew a large circle in the dirt with a stick. Gray Cloud stood proudly among his admirers, and Burr, after picking up his knife, went to the wagon.

“I’m going to fight him,” he said, taking off his shirt. “If I kill him, we can go and the ranch will be left alone. If he kills me, they ride on the ranch.” He grinned at Mooney. “We got a chance. It’s more than I thought we had a while ago.”

“Gol’ damn, Burr,” Mooney said, taking off his hat and wiping his face on his sleeve. “It’s tight, ain’t it?”

“Yup. But I’m not too bad with a blade. Luis taught me a trick or two. The only thing I can tell you, old friend, is if it looks like I’m not going to make it, whip up the mules and try to get out of here.” He didn’t add that it was almost a certainty he wouldn’t make it, but Mooney knew that. “Give me a chaw of that tobacco, Mooney. I’ve got to take every advantage I can get.” Glad that he had chosen to wear moccasins, which allowed him greater agility, Burr popped the chunk of tobacco into his mouth, took a tight grip on the handle of his knife, and walked into the circle.

The crowd closed in. Gray Cloud, obviously confident of his prowess with his knife, was enjoying the attention now focused on him. He was taller than the average Apache, broad in the shoulders, and thick through the chest. His legs and arms were heavily muscled, and he moved on the balls of his feet like a cat. He stood with legs apart, one ahead of the other, staring at Burr. He was supremely confident, having fought many battles with other Apache tribes, Mexicans, and the Yaqui Indians of Mexico.

Burr gripped his knife tighter as the Apache moved in, his blade darting and thrusting like the tongue of a snake. The point of the blade ripped a small gash in Burr’s forearm. He sprang forward, then Gray Cloud leaped back to escape the thrusting knife. They fell into the dirt and rolled over, stabbing and thrusting. They came up facing each other. There was blood running down the Indian’s shoulder. Burr was bloody, too.

“Shit-eatin’ buzzard,” Burr hissed in English.

He held his knife low, cutting edge up. They circled each other, ramming and stabbing. Another fleck of blood showed on Burr’s forearm. The Indian was incredibly fast. His flat, hard face and cold eyes showed no emotion. He lunged forward. Burr moved and seemed to slip; the Indian sprang to the side, and Burr swung with his left fist, catching Gray Cloud on the side of the head and knocking him to the ground. Gray Cloud came up swiftly, thrusting low for Burr’s crotch, but Burr knocked the knife aside and lunged. His blade sliced a path across the Indian’s chest. Gray Cloud swung around, striking rapidly with his knife; it went into Burr’s shoulder. Burr struck him again with his fist, and they both fell. The blood from Burr’s arm soaked the cloth tied around his knife hand.

The Indian was on his feet first and lunged. Burr side-stepped and caught Gray Cloud’s wrist, throwing him over. He moved in to step on the knife arm, but the Indian rolled and came up slashing. Burr circled to the right, forcing the Indian to turn. Blood ran down his chest, and he could feel it, wet, in the bottoms of his moccasins. He moved his foot forward, gaining a step, then crouched. The Indian feinted, then came in fast. Burr struck the knife arm and the blade entered his side. He grunted with pain and clamped his hand on the Indian’s arm, his fingers seeking the funny bone, to find it and paralyze it so that he would drop the knife. For a moment it was strength against strength, straining every muscle, then the Indian suddenly yielded and stepped back, throwing Burr off balance. He lost his grip on his knife when his fist hit the ground. The Indian sprang up, and Burr rolled over and came to his feet empty-handed.

Gray Cloud leaped at him, and Burr sidestepped, his left forearm taking the tip of the blade, his right fist smashing into the face of the Indian. The second Gray Cloud hit the ground, Burr was on him, his powerful arm straining to hold the Indian’s knife away from his body. Burr hammered him with his fist while Gray Cloud’s clawlike hand grabbed for the soft parts between his legs. Wildly, bitterly, and desperately they fought, their bodies slick with blood. They rolled in the dirt, their faces close. Burr got his hand into the oily hair and jerked Gray Cloud’s head back. The hate-filled eyes blazed up at him. It was the chance he had been waiting for. He spat a thick stream of tobacco juice into the blazing black eyes.

The Indian let out a yell, and Burr’s two hands closed over the knife in Gray Cloud’s fist and plunged it into his throat. A well of blood gushed up, covering Burr’s hands. Dazed, he looked at Gray Cloud, expecting him to spring up again. He got to his feet and backed away.

The shrill keening of the women made him aware that the fight was over. He looked at the chief and the old man nodded slightly. Burr picked up his knife and staggered to the wagon. Mooney reached down, grasped his hand, and hauled him up onto the seat.

“Hee-yaw! Heee-ee-yaw!” Mooney shouted to the team and cracked the whip over their backs. The crowd parted and the wagon rolled out of the village.