The Quantro Story (11 page)

But now they had land to grow crops, acres to fatten livestock, security from the hunger of the reservations where the Indian agents had cheated them time and time again of the Government supplies that the white treaty papers had promised. With the worry of filling the children's bellies eased, they could turn their hands to repairing their clothes and making moccasins. The Apache had begun to smile again.

None of them wanted to go back now to the low country, and they did not want to cause any trouble that would bring the
Federales
, the Mexican army, up into the mountains to hunt them down like animals. It was nearing the season to harvest and they could ill afford men to guard the mountain passes and fight skirmishes. As it was, every man, woman and child would have to work hard and long if they were to reap the full benefit of their crops.

So Crawling-Snake stood virtually alone in his beliefs. Two or three of the young bucks sided with him, anxious to prove themselves in the excitement of battle. His fighting talk had stirred the pride in their hearts and they were restless to use the skills they had developed during the war games of their childhood. Growing crops and herding cattle was not their idea of life. They resented Red-Fox's conservative, cautious attitude, and the fact he had the support of the majority of the band gave them more reason to hate him.

But of the young bucks, none held the burning hatred that Crawling-Snake held for his brother. From the time they had been boys, their father, Big-Eagle, had always favored the younger son, and it had seemed to Crawling-Snake he had been left out in the cold. It had never occurred to him his father was quick to perceive his elder son's foolhardy nature, and that his main duty to the Apache tribe was to select a suitable chief to follow in his footsteps. Big-Eagle had therefore turned to his younger son, Red-Fox, having the wisdom and foresight to realize the land he knew and loved was changing, and the only chance their people had was to be led by a man who possessed the character and resource to guide them carefully around the traps that could easily befall them in the years to come. In his wisdom, he knew that giving the majority of his attention to his younger son would feed the elder son's resentment, but he hoped the void that had already opened between his two sons would not become an unbridgeable chasm that could not be healed, by them supporting each other and uniting to protect their people from the depredations that were surely to come at the hands of the
blancos
.

Crawling-Snake could do nothing but envy Red Fox's accession to the position of chief, which in his mind should rightly be the place of the eldest son, namely himself. He begrudged the deference and respect Red-Fox had earned from his people by sound judgment or otherwise. To Crawling-Snake, his brother was not wise but cowardly; not cautious but merely slow to seize opportunities as they arose. He despised Red-Fox for everything he stood for. How could the Apache ever regain the rightful possession of their land, the land stolen from them with lies, unless by a show of strength? Only the blood of their enemies would exact revenge for their suffering.

Well, if Red-Fox would not make a move to right all the wrongs, then he, Crawling-Snake would. And he knew who he would begin with. The two
Americanos
.

From his seat on his favorite rock, Crawling-Snake glowered, surly, as White-Wing emerged from Pete Wiltshire's wickiup. She was wearing a soft, fringed, doeskin dress that did little to hide the thrust of her breasts and her shining black hair that hung thick and beautiful to her shoulders. As she turned to go and see her sister he appraised her broad hips and firm buttocks that swung enticingly beneath the dress. Yes, she would bear him many fine sons.

But first he would kill the
blancos.

He glowered as he thought of all the hours she had spent in that wickiup the last few days with the injured man. He snorted. Now she was even wearing her best dress. The
blanco
must have put her up to it. Another one trying to steal away what was rightfully his.

For that, he would die slowly. Crawling-Snake had been an avid pupil as a boy when he had been shown all the tortures an Apache could inflict on his enemies.

He smiled maliciously.

***

Quantro woke on the fifth day.

White-Wing had left his side to catch up on some well-earned sleep now she was convinced he would recover. Quantro struggled to sit up but found he was much too weak, and instead slumped back against the rough wad of cloth she had placed beneath his head.

Pete Wiltshire had just finished shaving and returned to the wickiup to go through the ritual of cleaning his guns. He found his unknown guest awake for the first time. As he broached the doorway, Quantro's ice-blue eyes swiveled to inspect him, his right hand instinctively groping for the comfort of the Colt that wasn't there. Pete's face brought rushing images of buzzards and Apaches and blurred views of rocky mountain trails. A wave of nausea swept over him, reaching up from his stomach, and almost consumed him. He blinked and swallowed, fighting it back down.

“Well now, so you've finally come alive?”

Quantro looked up at the weather-beaten face. Pete smiled.

“The feeling'll pass boy. Then we can talk, and you can tell me how you came to be on the Devil's Plateau with a big hole in you.” He studied Quantro's face. “You want water?” He splashed some liquid into a tin cup then held the patient's head while he sipped.

The life-giving water eased his throat. “The boy?” Quantro managed to croak.

Pete sniffed and watched the blonde man's face carefully, hoping to catch a hint as he answered.

“You hit him in the guts. He mounted up and rode out. Fell off his horse after he'd gone apiece. Dead on the trail when we found him.”

Quantro's head jerked slightly and he looked away. “Didn't have much choice,” he said, facing the wall, “I had nothing against him. He was only a boy.”

Pete said nothing about the fact Wild-Horse had figured out from the sign Quantro had been ambushed by the boy. After a few seconds of silence he realized he was not going to get any further explanation, so he changed the subject.

“Well, I'm Pete Wiltshire.”

Quantro introduced himself.

“Quantro you say?” Pete said frowning. He sat down and began to clean his pistol. Occasionally he would repeat the name Quantro and shake his head a little. When he had finished with the six-gun, he reloaded it and spun the cylinder. He holstered it and stretched the thong over the hammer then looked up, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Quantro? Knew some folks called Quantro once. Larry Quantro. Had him a pretty wife too. Name of Martha… maybe Maggie?…”

“Mary,” Quantro suggested, suddenly very interested in this man who called himself Pete Wiltshire.

“Yeah, that's right. Mary. Mary Quantro. Larry and Mary Quantro.” He lifted his eyes and looked directly at the wounded man across the wickiup from him, squinting as the memories came back. “I musta bin all of ten years old. I came with them on a wagon train just about clear across the country. Kin of your'n?”

“My mother and father.”

Pete looked startled. “My God, boy. I knew all along there was something almighty familiar about your face. I shoulda guessed it when I saw that Bar-Q-Bar brand on your horse.”

“The buckskin? You saw him?”

“Yes. That's how we found you. If we hadn't found that stallion straying we wouldn't have come anywhere near where you were. You'd be there still, a fat buzzard eating out your eyes.”

Quantro forced a weak grin. “And there I was, cursing that damn horse. I thought he' d got the hell out of it.”

Pete laughed. “Yeah, well he's outside, getting lazy on mountain grass. Needed a good feed anyways. One thing for sure. He carried you a long ways that you didn't even know about.” His face fell straight. “How are your Ma and Pa? It's been a long time since I saw them. Last I heard, they was going to build a ranch.”

“They're both dead.” Quantro's voice was completely devoid of emotion.

Pete sniffed and looked away. “I'm sorry, boy. They were real good people.” He looked away into the near distance. “That wagon train I told you about. My father died on it from the fever…” He looked back at Quantro. “Your Pa, he helped my ma and me out real good. He always made sure we was okay. And his time was pretty full up too. Your ma was way out to here.” He made a big circle around his stomach with both his arms. “'Spectin' you I guess. Anyhow, I thought a lot of your ma and pa.”

Pete receded into his memories, recalling visions of vast rolling prairies and the heat and dust and the Indian attacks and the creaking of wagon wheels as they tumbled across the ruts. He began to put together a cigarette. “Want one? We was supposed to go to California.” He snorted. “The land of milk and honey. Anyhow, one thing led to another and I lost my ma, then I drifted a while, and pretty soon I ended up in Mexico. I always used to remember your pa talking round the fire at night, 'bout the ranch he was going to build, and all the cattle and horses he was going to run on the land, and when I heard the tales in the
cantinas
about gold, I decided I'd go and find me a strike and when I had the money together I'd get me a big ranch too. Like your pa. I s'pose he was a bit of a hero to me.”

Pete lapsed into silence for a moment and watched the smoke curling up. “They're always telling stories in Mexico about hidden canyons where gold runs in a vein twice as thick as a man's arm. I got me some prospectin' gear together and started looking. Believe me boy, it just ain't there, and that's a fact. Leastways not where I looked.” Pete started to laugh, perhaps at his own foolishness. “I looked in every damned canyon in Sonora, and just when I was about to give up I got jumped by some thieving
banditos
who damn near killed me. Wild-Horse, the Apache who found you, found me and brought me up here. I've been here ever since.” He looked over at Quantro. “Well, that takes care of me. What about you?”

Quantro told him the story of the massacre at the ranch and of his two year hunt. “So you see,” he concluded, “I had nothing against the boy, only his father, and that had been settled. But he came after me.”

Pete nodded sagely. “Looks like you had no other trail to ride. Can't let folks go off shooting at you without shootin' back. Were the men on the wanted flyers the ones you went after ?”

“You saw them ?”

“Yeah. I was trying to find out who you were. For all I knew, you could've bin some badman desperado.”

Quantro let the witticism slip. “That was a couple of them. It turned out handy for me they were wanted. It saved me answering a lot of awkward questions, and the bounty money allowed me to keep on the trail.”

Pete nodded. “When I saw the flyers I figured you might be a lawman. If I'd found a badge on you I'd have left you to die.”

“Why?”

“Well, these people up here, the Apache, they took me in like I told you, and I was hurt real bad. If you'd have been the law, and we'd brought you back up here, then as soon as you were fit to ride you'd have been headed straight for the States to shout your mouth off about the renegade Apache hiding out up in the mountains. The army would've come straight here to drive them back to some stinkin' reservation. Besides that,” he chuckled, “I don't cotton to lawmen much myself. I reckon they've got a funny kinda smell about them. Mind you, some's worse than others.”

“You're surely right,” Quantro commented. “I met me a few when I was on the trail. Only difference between some of them and the outlaws is a silver star on their chest.”

Pete grinned and blew smoke to the roof. “You're right there, boy.” He drew on his cigarette slowly and watched Quantro's eyelids flicker closed. The long story of the manhunt had used what little strength his days of coma and sleep had replenished. A tale worth telling, too, thought Pete. A two year hunt over half the territories in the south west, badlands and Indian nations too. No little task.

Pete sniffed. He admired the boy's guts.

***

White-Wing stopped in her tracks the first time she came under the firm stare of Quantro's blue eyes. She blushed, the color glowing in her cheeks, eyes downcast to her tiny feet encased in their beaded
kabuns
. Pete laughed and told her in Apache to fetch food. She turned obediently and stooped through the low doorway, leaving Quantro to look enquiringly at him.

“What'd you say?”

“I told her the handsome white brave had huge pains of rumbling hunger in his greedy stomach.” He chuckled. “Looks like you got greedy eyes for somethin' else too. You almost ate her up just lookin' at her.”

“She your woman?”

“No.”

“Then do you blame me? It's not often a man comes out of a fever when he thought he was going to die, and the first thing he sees is a woman like that. Makes a man want to live. What's her name ?”

“White-Wing. She's the one who looked after you while you were sick. Only reason she wasn't here when you woke was I sent her to get some sleep. She's sat by you day and night.” He sniffed. “I had you down for dead, boy. If you owe your life to anyone, it's her.”

Quantro raised an eyebrow. “I can't think of a better debt to repay. What kind of payment would she like?”

While they were both laughing, White-Wing returned with two steaming bowls filled with meat stew. She propped Quantro up and held the bowl for him while he ate and talked with Pete. He shoveled the spoonfuls hungrily into his mouth. It was his first solid food for a week and he relished every morsel.

Each time the spoon rose from the bowl to his mouth, the eyes of the Indian girl followed its progress.

From being unconscious and helpless, the handsome blonde
Americano
had come alive and he ate with gusto, his once still features animated as he chewed and talked. He smiled, laughed, frowned, each expression a source of delight to her. She knew he was somebody important, she felt it inside. His beautiful buckskin horse and the expensive saddle only confirmed it. Why he was special she did not know, but he was indeed special to her. Didn't her breath race, and her heart beat faster just being close to him?