The Pride of Hannah Wade (15 page)

She was almost senseless when the blows stopped and hands grabbed her and roughly turned her onto her back. The rope was dragged from around her. There was a moment when she thought it was all over; then her arms were twisted to spread them away from her sides and the front of her buckskin blouse was ripped from its shoulder seam.

Hannah saw a red eye coming toward her, oddly stuck on the end of a stick held by one of Gatita’s older sisters. As it came closer, she caught a whiff of smoke and the smell of burning wood. The red eye was the red-orange center of a stick from the fire, surrounded by white-hot coals. Her shock turned to horror as Hannah realized they intended to use it on her. She pulled in her breath and tried to flatten herself into the ground, but the imprisoning hands held her fast.

She screamed as the fiery end seared through the layers of skin above her right breast. The acrid smell of burning flesh, her own, implanted its sickening odor in her mind. Again, and once again, it was pressed onto her shoulder before she mercifully fainted.

Later Hannah learned that she had missed several
opportunities to escape while the mescal was being gathered. Because she had waited until this important crop had been harvested and buried in the baking pit, her life had been spared. It was still possible that she would be a good slave because she had finished her work before she tried to run away.

Three deep burns made an irregular pattern above her breast. The pain of the charred flesh was excruciating; it throbbed through her body as she labored under the weight of the basket filled with baked mescal hearts. The basket was carried behind her, Apache-style, a cloth strap stretched around the basket and up across her forehead. The muscles in her neck ached with the strain of leaning against the heavy pull dragging her back, but this method distributed the weight over her entire body and made it easier to walk over the rough terrain.

As the season wore on, Hannah became conditioned to the harsh Apache way of life. More mescal gathers were made before the agave flowered, and the baked hearts were spread on the ground around the
rancheria
to dry in the sun. Hours were spent pounding them into thin sheets, keeping the Juices to make a preserving glaze. The dried mescal would keep almost indefinitely, making it a vital food source for the Apache. With hunger ever present, Hannah eventually grew to like its squashlike flavor.

Always there was work: food to be gathered and prepared, firewood to be hauled, water to be carried, and meals to be fixed. In addition to all the regular chores, there were animal hides and skins to be tanned and meat to be cooked and dried whenever the men returned from a hunt.

She was a slave, constantly at the beck and call of her mistress, physically punished if she was slow to obey and treated as an inferior. She hungered for the sound of a friendly word spoken to her, but she never heard it.
She’d been given the name Coloradas for the red in her hair, but if she was addressed at all, it was usually in some abusive term.

As the days wore on, her previous life seemed more and more distant. On cold nights while she lay on the bare ground, huddling close to the fire because she had no blanket, she would recall the warmth of Stephen’s body when she used to curl against him in bed, and wonder if he was lying there now thinking of her. Sometimes she woke in the night, shivering, with his name on her lips.

Many Leaves passed and the season of Large Leaves came. The Apaches abandoned their camp on the mesa top and packed all their belongings on their horses, carrying what couldn’t be loaded on the animals, and set out. They moved frequently, Hannah learned, going where there was more game or where a wild food was ripe for gathering, like the juniper berries and the wild grains during the time of Large Leaves, Sometimes the spring or water tanks went dry. Sometimes Hannah didn’t even know the reason they were on the march again. Often they came in contact with other Apaches, sometimes camping together in an area where the food, game, and water were plentiful.

When a hunting party went out, Lutero was seldom among them, Hannah had observed; yet when Apaches from two or three groups gathered to form a raiding party, he was the one they addressed as
jefe,
leader. It was confusing, but she supposed it could be likened to a quartermaster and a field commander; one was good at tracking down supplies and the other excelled at fighting.

Several times Lutero left the group to raid, sometimes being gone for weeks on end. When he and his band returned, sometimes together, sometimes singly, it was always a cause for celebration—for the safe return of the men and the goods and horses they had
stolen. Each time, the. heavy-breasted woman created her vulgar display with some man at the dancing. Cactus Pear Woman was a
bi-zhahn,
a young divorcee, and cousin to Gatita. Her behavior seemed to be acceptable because of that, although Hannah noticed that it was only exhibited on the occasion of a successful raid.

Fatigue was ever with her. Sometimes she worked by rote, too tired to think. At other times Hannah made herself recall things from that far-off past to keep them fresh, or made odd connections like the one with the quartermaster and field commander simply to keep that link with the past. She’d hum the melodies of songs that were favorites of hers or Stephen’s while she scraped the flesh from the hide of a freshly skinned deer, or recite’ the names of the officers of the Ninth and the companies to which they were attached while she picked up firewood. Hannah was determined not to let her memories of that other existence fade during this struggle to survive. Somehow she’d return to Stephen, and she wouldn’t allow that hope to die.

All hell had broken loose in the Apache country of Arizona and New Mexico. It began in April when factions of the Chiricahua tribe, which the late Cochise had once united, were again divided. A band under an Apache called Skinya was making raids into Old Mexico. With gold from one of their raids, a warrior bought whiskey from a station keeper along the Overland Stage route. He came back drunk and tried to buy more. A fight erupted; the station keeper and his cook were

The wild country around Fort Bayard was ceaselessly patrolled, from the mining district in the mountains around Silver City to the stage and supply routes in the desert to the south. Two detachments were constantly in the field to discourage raiding in the area. The
patrols were staggered so that a third of the cavalry’s force’ always remained at Bayard.

It was hot, the ground throwing off the day’s accumulation of heat to add to the baking glare of the late afternoon sun. Cutter paused in the shade of the trader’s store, bending his head to light a black Mexican cigar and scanning the road beyond the main guardpost over his flickering match flame. Wade was due back with his detail any time now. His return would signal Cutter’s departure on his patrol.

The Apache scout Nah-tay appeared beside him, his approach soundless, “One comes to this person’s
jacal
with white captive for
pindah
with leaves on shoulder. He no here. You come. Talk to him.”

Cutter shook out the match and used the delay to ask, “Why doesn’t he come to the fort?” They conversed in border Spanish.

“One who comes afraid
pindah
become angry, not let him leave after they buy his white woman. You come,” Nah-tay repeated insistently.

“Lead the way.” He Indicated his agreement with a nod of his head, then followed a step behind the silent-walking Apache. At the main guardpost, Cutter stopped and informed the soldier on duty of his whereabouts. “I’ll be at the scouts’ encampment if anyone wants me. If Major Wade returns, have him meet me there.”

“Yes, suh.” The order was acknowledged with a stiff salute, which Cutter idly returned before continuing on with the scout.

Since Wade had issued his promise of a ransom for his wife’s safe return, several attempts had been made to collect it. Cutter knew the chances were remote this time as well, so he allowed himself no expectations.

At Nah-tay’s
jacal,
Cutter ducked inside the traditionally east-facing doorway and stepped into the sour-smelling interior. The unmoving air was hot and stale in
the shadowed gloom. Two figures squatted on the beds made from blankets and robes. Cutter sank to his haunches opposite the pair while Nah-tay sat almost in the middle, serving as the link between them. Abiding by Apache etiquette, Cutter preserved the silence, meeting the stares with the natural gravity of his features.

When a satisfactory interval had passed, one of the Apaches spoke in his quick, loose-sounding native tongue, which Nah-tay translated into Spanish. “He says you are not
pindah
who asks for captive.”

“Tell-him that I am not. Tell him also that I bargain for the
pindah
who seeks the white woman with fire in her hair.”

The reply was relayed, and its subsequent answer. “He asks how much you pay.”

“It was promised that fifty dollars in gold would be paid.” Cutter repeated the reward that had been offered by Major Wade.

One Apache, an older, round-faced man, did all the talking and haggling, while the other sat silently and looked disagreeable. The fifty dollars was finally accepted as the price as long as the smooth-faced
pindah
gave his assurance that they would be allowed to leave.

“Agreed,” Cutter said. “But tell them I will pay them nothing until I see the woman.”

After Nah-tay had told them that, the older Apache replied. “He says they left her tied in the brush. You are welcome to go see the woman.”

“Ask if he thinks I look like a
tonto,
a fool? Tell him to bring the woman here,” Cutter replied.

It was agreed that the Apaches would bring the woman captive into the camp. They slipped out of the
jacal.
A few seconds later, Cutter and Nah-tay vacated the hot, rancid hut to wait for them under the
ramada
outside. From the main road came the scuff of a horse
column, the creak of leather, and rolling snorts. The patrol had returned.

A movement on the edge of the encampment directed Cutter’s attention back to the matter at hand. The two Apaches pushed a cowering, blanket-wrapped figure into the clearing. The hooding blanket and the woman’s downcast head made it impossible for Cutter to see anything of her face. She had the cowed look of a broken-spirited animal. Cutter eyed her with a growing resistance.

When she stopped in front of him and the old Apache pulled the blanket from her head, he was relieved to see that it wasn’t Hannah. The sallow complexion identified her as a Mexican even though her black hair had been dyed with red juice, probably made from boiling the bark of the mountain mahogany. She whimpered like a beaten puppy, too frightened and too ashamed to look at him.

From behind him came the stumbling clatter of tired horses being hurried over the desert rock. Cutter turned to observe Major Wade’s approach, seeing his uniform caked with sweat and alkal dust and the weariness of two weeks in the saddle about him. A black armband encircled his left sleeve. He wore it constantly as a reminder of his wife’s abduction, refusing to regard it as a symbol of mourning. The dramatic affectation had been picked up by the local newspaper, and fresh stories were circulated about the noble cavalry officer.

Driven by some kinetic energy, Wade appeared, as always, on edge, his nerves rasped thin. The chief of the scouts, One-Eye Amos Hill, rode with him, bringing up the rear.

“What is this about?” Wade demanded.

“The Apaches have brought you the woman with fire in her hair,” Cutter answered dryly.

“The bastards dyed it.” He cursed the ruse they’d used to collect the ransom. ‘Tell them that is a Mexican with red hair. I want the white woman.”

“What do you want to do about the
senorita?”
Cutter watched the officer sitting his horse so stiffly. Beside him, a buckskin-jacketed Amos Hill sat slouch-shouldered on his dun horse, whiskered and weary.

Irritation ruled Wade’s expression, then gave way to a hard impetuosity. “I’ll buy her, of course. She can’t be worth much. Offer them ten dollars.” He looked at the white scout. “Afterward I want them interrogated. Find out everything they know.”

Amos Hill gave a slow nod and dismounted with poky deliberation. After he walked forward to stand beside Cutter, the haggling began. Eventually the Apaches settled for the ten-dollar price, but Wade didn’t pay them until the questioning was through. They seemed anxious to leave, disappearing into the brush the moment Amos Hill told them they could go.

The huddled figure of the Mexican captive continued to cower underneath the blanket. She had again pulled it up around her head and held it tightly closed near her mouth. When Cutter approached her, speaking quietly in Spanish, she made odd protesting sounds in her throat and shrank away from him.

“What do ya want us t’do with her, Major?” Amos shifted his plug of tobacco to the other cheek.

“Find out where she’s from, and we’ll try to get her back to her family.” Stephen’s horse kicked at a biting fly, the saddle leather creaking at the action.

“That’ll be a problem.” With difficulty, Cutter pushed the bitter rage from his voice at the discovery he’d just made. “They cut out her tongue.”

Everything went still, a heavy silence suddenly weighting the air. It lasted for three long heartbeats; then Wade wheeled his horse toward the fort and
kicked it into a lope. Cutter eyed the pitiful creature for a moment more, then bowed his head in an attitude of near-defeat and frustration. He doubted the Mexican girl’s sanity.

“Poor dumb thing,” Amos shook his head.

“I’ll have one of the women at the fort clean her up and fix her something to eat.”

“She won’t thank you for takin’ her in there for everyone to gawk at,” Amos interposed. “Best if she goes to my wickiup where Mary Rose can look after her.” He didn’t wait for Cutter’s agreement. Instead he turned and called to the plump squaw dressed in bright calico sitting under the
ramada
of the next
jacal.
She came hurrying over, her white-powdered face creating an odd contrast to her naturally bronze skin. Amos said something more to her in the mushy-sounding language of the Apache and indicated the Mexican. As the squaw led the mute girl away, Amos spat a yellow stream of tobacco Juice onto the ground. “Wish she wouldn’t wear that damned powder. She’s got it in her head I want a white woman. Women. Don’t matter what color they are; they’re all alike.” He started after them. “See ya, Cutter. Ridin’ out tomorrow?”