The Darkest Heart (45 page)

Yet it wasn’t fair to ask her to live like an Apache.

And if he was less selfish, he would let her and the child go.

The realization was too painful. He quelled it. But he knew it would remain now to taunt him, no matter how hard he tried to chase it into the shadows.

Her look was accusing.

The black moved restlessly beside him. “We won’t be gone long. A couple of days.”

Candice looked sick. “How can you do this? You’re killing your own flesh and blood!”

His mouth tightened. He refused to be drawn into this topic He mounted gracefully, gave her a hard look, and wheeled the black, cantering down the canyon to catch up with the war party. He could feel her eyes on him. Accusing and dismayed, even repelled. Her emotions seemed to be an echo of his own.

They rode steadily throughout the day, only two hundred strong this time, and Jack rode beside Nahilzay, who was in charge. They rode north up the Aravaipa Valley, toward Fort Breckenridge. They wouldn’t go that far. A supply convoy had passed ahead of them, marked by Cochise’s scouts yesterday. They would ambush the convoy. They needed guns and ammunition.

Jack kept thinking about Lieutenant Morris, the man who had ordered the hangings in February, the man responsible for Shozkay’s murder. Almost a lifetime ago. He was still at Breckenridge. Thinking about him filled Jack with a blood-lust, a murdering rage. His need for vengeance was completely primitive and completely Apache.

They ambushed the convoy at dawn the following day. The convoy was foolishly camped in an arroyo, but the whites liked traveling in dry arroyos. They had yet to learn the Apache way of traveling across the ridgetops—which was safer, although slower. Arroyos were perfect for ambushes, meandering between hillocks and buttes. Two hundred warriors descended screaming at once upon the fifty infantrymen mounted on mules.

The troops quickly turned over the wagons and made a barricade, returning their fire. In the initial onslaught, three of them had been killed, a few others wounded but dragged to safety. Jack pulled up the black as the Apaches circled the barricade at a racing gallop, firing bullets and arrows at the
soldiers, coming from all directions at once. For a moment he just watched. It would have been a slaughter if the troops hadn’t overturned the wagons so efficiently. Now the skirmish could go on for hours, until the Apaches grew tired or ran too low on ammunition, in which case, if they didn’t fulfill the goal of the attack, they were worse off than when they had started.…

He urged the black into a lope and into the melee. He quickly became absorbed into the battle. When a rifle was pointed at him he had to fire to defend himself. The cycle was swift, comprehensive, and vicious. He wounded a soldier, seeing his head disappear from over the edge of the wagon. A bullet missed his horse’s flank narrowly. Still cantering, he circled, fired at a soldier, missing. He hated wasting ammunition in this kind of fray.

Something made him turn.

Nahilzay’s horse was hit and floundering. The tall warrior leapt off and escaped being crushed with the reflexes of a cat. Jack moved the black toward him to provide protection to the man on foot. Nahilzay saw him, smiling fiercely, running toward him. Jack and Nahilzay saw the crouching figure in blue at the same time. Nahilzay had no gun; it had been crushed by his horse, as had the bow. The soldier was drawing his weapon, Nahilzay reaching for his knife. Jack saw the soldier’s face. He was a baby-faced boy. His eyes were blue, his skin badly sunburned. He was terrified. Nahilzay threw the knife before the boy drew, but missed, losing his footing as he released it, jostled in the melee. The boy raised the gun. Jack was frozen.

“Niño Salvaje,” Nahilzay shouted, looking at him with an unmistakably urgent message.

Jack drew. He was as fast as lightning, and both guns went off simultaneously. The boy fell, killed instantly. Jack rode the black hard to the warrior, who leapt astride behind him.

They galloped up the hill, where Nahilzay slid off, unhurt. He stared, every muscle in his body corded with fury. He didn’t have to speak—what was on his mind was self-evident. But he did. “Go home, White Eyes. There is no place here for a man who cannot kill his enemy.”

Nahilzay strode off, furious.

Nothing could shake her mood, which was terribly sad.

She walked slowly through the woods from the creek, where she had bathed, rubbing the small of her back. The baby had been very active today, and it fascinated and awed her. Even now, she could feel him kicking. As a woman pregnant with the child of the man she loved, she should be ecstatic—not heartbrokenly sad.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts as she came out of the woods that for a brief moment she thought Datiye was merely standing against a tree. Then she realized with horror that her arms were tied to branches way above her head, and her legs were spread wide and tied that way, too. It took Candice a second to realize that she was in labor. She was wearing only a cloth shirt, and her awkward body strained against it. An ancient squaw was encouraging her as Datiye, silently, pushed. Her face was contorted with pain and concentrated effort. Sweat dripped from her chin, and there were huge wet patches under her arms. She was wearing something funny around her waist—a loose belt of many different colored hides. Candice screamed and ran forward.

“Stop it,” she shrieked, grabbing the old woman. “Stop this torture, let her down. This is inhuman!”

The old woman babbled angrily at her in Apache and gave her a gentle but firm push that meant go away.

“I’ll get a knife,” Candice said to Datiye, who was grunting, sweat pouring down her cheeks. It was the first time she had spoken directly to her since her arrival at the rancheria months ago.

“No,” Datiye panted. “Just … go.”

She’s crazy, Candice thought, watching for a moment as she strained against the ropes. Damn Jack! He should be there! Candice turned and ran a few steps toward
the gohwah
. She found a knife and hurried back as fast as she could.

Datiye’s eyes were closed and she was straining with all the effort she had, making Candice pause, suddenly uncertain. The old woman was on her knees, reaching between Datiye’s legs. Candice thought of the strange singing and
chanting she’d heard last night. She hadn’t asked Datiye what was happening, but had known it had to do with her baby, especially when the woman had been blessed with pollen and the belt of hides that was now tied around her waist. She had recognized two of the men as shamans, and had guessed the other two were also medicine men. Gripping the knife, she strode resolutely forward.

Datiye gasped, and the old woman gave a triumphant cry.

Candice stared at the slippery red bundle that the woman was pulling out from between Datiye’s thighs. She was amazed. The squaw reached up and slit the umbilical cord. The red-faced infant let loose a howl. Datiye sagged against the tree. Her shoulders slumped in what appeared to be exhaustion.

The old woman put the baby down in the grass and stood, scowling.

“What’s wrong?” Candice cried. “Is he deformed?” She stepped closer, to look. The baby was wailing now. The old woman glared and spoke sharply to Candice, then picked up the infant and marched into the woods. Candice had only gotten a glimpse of the child, but it had seemed like a normal baby. He certainly was a lusty thing, she thought, for she could still hear him howling. “Datiye? Are you all right?”

Datiye opened her eyes, and Candice saw to her shock that tears were streaming down her face. She cut her down, and the woman slumped on the ground. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Datiye said.

“Is the boy deformed?”

“He is a crier,” Datiye said simply.

Candice didn’t understand. “What? All children cry!”

“Apache children do not cry,” Datiye said.

Candice had a sense of imminent danger. “What is that witch doing with your child?”

“Putting him to death,” Datiye said.

Candice stared, then was running, as fast as she could. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t believe it. But that child was Jack’s. Were the Apaches so cruel as to kill a child because it cried?

She found the woman at the creek placing the wailing
baby in a small hole that had been freshly dug. “No!” Candice screamed, panting.

The woman looked up, glared, and began throwing dirt on the crying baby. Candice picked up a rock and threw it at the woman. It hit her shoulder, stopping her efforts. Candice fell to her knees and picked up the boy, still wet and covered with a whitish afterbirth, still wailing lustily. She cradled him against her breast, feeling a twinge in her side. “Get away,” she hissed at the woman. “Get away, you sick old witch!” She clutched the baby closer still.

The woman said something, rose, and stomped away. Candice started to cry. She couldn’t believe it. The woman had been about to kill this baby, a sweet, innocent, helpless baby—and Datiye was going to let her do it.

The baby’s mouth was working against her breast. “Damn,” Candice whispered. “You’re just hungry. How could they kill a baby for being hungry?

She stood unsteadily. Her heart was still pumping. Her side ached, but it most definitely wasn’t a labor cramp—or at least she didn’t think it was. She walked down to the creek and quickly bathed the crying baby, singing to him to try to make him stop, drying him with her petticoat, which she then wrapped around him. His eyes were an unusually pale gray-blue. “So you really are Jack’s son,” she crooned. She felt overwhelmingly protective toward this tiny creature.

She strode back to
the gohwah
, the baby suddenly quiet. Candice said a quick prayer of thanks and paused at the edge of the woods, looking around. What if someone forcibly took the child from her and killed him before Jack returned? And how would she get milk for the baby? Could she talk Datiye into nursing the child? The baby had to eat!

Cochise.

Resolutely she walked through the camp to his
gohwah
. Miraculously, the baby had fallen asleep. Cochise was not in sight, but his first wire, whom Candice knew only by sight, was stirring the contents of a large iron pot. She stared at her with interest.

“I must see Cochise,” Candice said. “Cochise.”

Without a word, the woman stood and shouted something. Candice saw a boy of about nine, listening, then he turned and ran off. The woman smiled and said something to
her. Candice realized she had offered her a seat. Gratefully she sank down, wondering if she would ever be able to stand up again. Her back was starting to ache terribly.

She took a moment to study the baby’s wrinkled, red face. Did all babies look so funny? Even so, there was something incredibly beautiful about him. She stroked his downy head.

She saw Cochise coming a few minutes later, tall, broad-shouldered, his face expressionless, his black eyes dancing with interest. “You seek me?” he asked, staring at the baby.

“Cochise, I need your help,” she said, knowing full well she was asking him a favor in such a way he could not refuse.

He regarded her. “This is the second wife’s son.”

“Yes. They tried to kill it. I think because he cried.”

He did not seem surprised. “A crying baby can jeopardize the safety of an entire tribe, not just his own family.”

“So babies who cry at birth are killed?” She was appalled.

“Usually.”

“I need milk. This boy will not be killed. I will not allow it.”

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. He turned to his wife and spoke in Apache. She nodded, looking interested, and turned to do his bidding. The baby woke up and started to cry. Candice frowned, realizing he wasn’t a crier but a howler. She rocked him, afraid to look at Cochise. But she did.

“He is very loud,” Cochise noted.

She didn’t answer. She made soothing sounds, a little awkwardly, but out of instinct. Please stop crying, she begged silently. Please!

“There is no danger here,” Cochise told her, his voice so stern and laden with authority that Candice looked up. “But if the day ever comes that we must leave this place and run from the soldiers, should the baby cry like that—his throat will be slit instantly.”

Candice bit off a gasp.

“One death is preferable to many,” Cochise said.

Candice was horrified. She understood, but that didn’t make it any more palatable. She was overwhelmed with relief when his wife appeared with a teat of buckskin and a gourd of
milk. “Thank you,” Candice said, and began feeding the baby.

He is a greedy boy, she noted, fascinated. Like his father, she thought tenderly. She glanced at Cochise. “Will Datiye reject him even now?”

“I do not know,” Cochise said. “You may tell her I extend my protection until the day we leave this stronghold. With the help of the gods, that day may never come.” He seemed to be slightly amused. He turned and walked away.

After the boy had fallen asleep, Candice stood, the older woman assisting her. Cochise’s wife sent his son with them, carrying the rest of the milk and the teat. Candice wondered what Datiye would do. She found herself hoping fervently that she would accept her own child.

Datiye was on her knees, slicing wild onions and tossing them into a pot as if she hadn’t given birth that day. When she saw Candice and her son she went very still. Her face turned white. “What have you done?”

“I won’t let you kill him,” Candice said, rocking the sleeping baby. He was still wrapped in her petticoat. “He needs his mother. Will you take him?”

Tears came into Datiye’s eyes. Candice was afraid to trust her, but when Datiye held out her arms, she handed the baby to her. Datiye clutched him to her breast and began to weep silently.

He was as tired as the rest of the war party, but his mood was low, while everyone else was jubilant. They had captured the wagon train of supplies. They had lost two warriors, with several more wounded, but the whites had lost five times that number. The warriors were elated. Jack knew better. If every time there was an engagement the Apache lost a man or two, in no time they would have too few warriors left to fight. It saddened him immensely.