Apache Flame (11 page)

She watched him take up his coat and leave the house, and
then, alone for the first time that day, she sat down and cried, weeping for
the child she had thought dead, for the lies her father had told Mitch that had
kept them apart, for the life they might have had together.

She cried until she was empty inside, until she had no tears
left. Her father was gone. Mitch was gone. But her son was alive, and somehow,
she would find him.

Chapter Twelve

Mitch stared in amazement at Rides the Buffalo. Only four
years old, yet the kid was already well on his way to becoming a warrior. When
Mitch had decided to visit his mother’s people, he’d had a vague idea of becoming
a warrior, but he knew now that becoming a true warrior wasn’t something a boy
learned at a certain age, it was something that started at birth. It was more
than skill with weapons, more than the ability to hunt and track. It was a way
of believing, an innate sense of pride, of self.

Mitch shook his head as he watched Rides the Buffalo. The
boy knew how to throw a knife, how to use a bow. He knew how to track and kill
small game, how to find food and water, how to hide from an enemy, how to build
a wickiup. He was already an expert horseman.

Mitch blew out a sigh as he watched his little brother place
an arrow in the center of a target made of deer hide, then loose three more
arrows in a handful of seconds, each one striking the target.

“Nice shooting,” Mitch exclaimed.

Rides the Buffalo handed his bow and an arrow to Mitch. “Now
you.”

The bow, made of mulberry wood, was boy-sized. The arrow,
made of willow, was about two feet long, fletched with turkey feathers. Should
have been easy, Mitch thought. He had made a crude bow and arrow when he’d been
a kid, had even managed to bring down a rabbit or a bird from time to time, yet
he sent four arrows flying, and missed the target four times.

“Perhaps you need a bow more your size.”

Mitch turned to see Elk Chaser walking toward him, a grin on
his face. “I doubt if it will help,” Mitch replied good-naturedly. “I don’t
think the fault lies in the bow, but in my skill.”

“I think you are right,” Elk Chaser agreed as he handed
Mitch his own bow.

It was a good sturdy weapon made of bodark wood. Strong yet
flexible, it was easily five feet in length. He accepted an arrow from Elk
Chaser. It was made of willow, fletched with two eagle feathers. The bowstring
was made of deer sinew.

After five tries with only one hit, Mitch handed the bow
back to Elk Chaser. “I can see I will need a lot of practice.”

Elk Chaser looked at Rides the Buffalo. They exchanged
solemn looks, then laughed out loud.

“Come,” Elk Chaser said, grinning. “Let us eat.”

* * * * *

That evening, Mitch walked down to a quiet place near the
river. Standing on the bank, he gazed at the reflection of the moon that
shimmered like molten gold on the surface of the slow-moving water.

He had never felt such a sense of homecoming, of belonging,
as he had since he’d entered the
rancheria
. The people had made him feel
welcome. Their language, a language he had not heard since childhood, sprang
easily to his lips. Faces he had never seen before looked familiar, and he had
to keep reminding himself that he had never been here before.

He stared up at the sky, the urge to pray strong within him
though he had not uttered a prayer in more years than he cared to admit. When
his mother left his father, he had prayed for her return, prayed fervently as
only a frightened and lonely child can pray, and then the old man had told him
White Robe was dead, and Mitch had stopped praying.

But now, with his mother nearby and the soft sounds of the
night all around him, he felt the need to pray, to offer his thanks to the
Great Spirit for returning his mother to him after all these years.

Did he even remember how to pray?

“
Ashoge, Usen,”
he murmured. “Thank You for returning
my mother to me. Thank You for bringing me home to this place. Thank You for my
brother…”

Mitch grinned into the darkness. Earlier, he had asked Elk
Chaser how Rides the Buffalo had gotten his name.

“It happened like this,” Elk Chaser began. “It was summer.
My son had watched the hunters one day as they moved among the buffalo covered
with buffalo hides to disguise their scent and shape. He is brave, my son, and
so, one day, he takes his buffalo skin and creeps up to the edge of the herd
that is grazing nearby. Being a small warrior, he is hardly noticed as he slips
in among the herd. Hidden beneath his robe, he makes his way to the center.
Watching the buffalo closely, he imitates the movements of a buffalo calf.

“But then, being only a small boy and not able to see much
from the ground, he decides to climb up on a rock. This gives him a different
view of the buffalo. He remains motionless on the rock, smiling at his feat of
courage. Soon, a large bull moves near the rock, so close that my small warrior
reaches out to touch the curly hide. The bull, being full of years, does not
notice.

“Being brave, but foolish, my son climbs onto the back of
the buffalo. Lying flat on the animal’s broad back, he pulls his robe over him.

“Slowly, the herd begins to move. My son does not know that
hunters clad in buffalo hides have moved in among the herd.

“Just before the attack is to begin, one of the warriors
notices the boy on the back of the old bull. Acting quickly, he cuts the bull
from the herd and just before the other warriors begin their attack, he pulls
my foolish son from the back of the buffalo. Startled, the buffalo lunges forward,
knocking the warrior and my son to the ground.

“The warrior is angry, but my son, who is too young to be
afraid, or to realize the danger he was in, begins to laugh, and soon the
warrior begins laughing with him.

“That night, my son has a new name. He is Rides the
Buffalo.”

“It is a good story,” Mitch remarked, smiling. “And a good
name.”

And a good life, he mused as he turned and gazed at the
lodges spread across the floor of the valley. Yet even as the thought crossed
his mind, Alisha’s image rose before him, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved
in a smile of welcome.

Alisha…

Swearing softly, he turned away from the river, determined
to put her out of his mind, out of his heart.

Chapter Thirteen

Alisha placed her teacup on the table beside the sofa,
counted to ten, and looked over at Roger, who was standing near the hearth, his
arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face.

“I’m going, Roger, and nothing you can say will make me
change my mind.”

“You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly. Dammit, Alisha,
you can’t go traipsing off into the desert looking for a bunch of savages.”

Alisha stared at Roger, somewhat taken aback by his use of
profanity. In all the years she had known him, she had never heard him swear,
but she refused to be swayed. “I can, and I will. Can’t you see? I have to go.”

Exasperated, Roger began to pace the floor.

Alisha took a deep breath. He had taken the news that she
had an illegitimate son surprisingly well, but when she told him she was going
to try to find the boy, he had looked at her as if she had lost her mind. They
had been arguing for the last forty minutes to no avail. Roger had declared
that she was being foolish and stubborn. Maybe he was right, but, right or
wrong, she was going after her son. She had already missed the first four years
of his life. She wasn’t willing to miss one day more than she had to.

Roger took a deep breath. “Alisha, you have no one to look
after you now. As your future husband, I insist that you stay home, where you
belong. There’s a trader in town. I saw him over at the restaurant this
morning. If you’re determined to find your son, I’ll hire him to look for the
boy.”

“Hiring a guide is a good idea,” Alisha said. She had
thought of it herself, of course. She wasn’t foolish enough to consider
crossing the desert alone. Still, she was willing to let Roger think it was his
idea. “But I’m going with him.”

“Alisha, I can understand how you feel. Truly, I do, but I
must forbid it.”

“Forbid it?” She stared at him. “Forbid it?” She took a deep
calming breath. “You’re not my husband yet, Roger. And I am going, as soon as
possible.”

“Is that your final word on the matter?” Roger asked
quietly. “You won’t change your mind?”

“I can’t.”

“Very well. If you won’t reconsider, I think I shall have to
call off our engagement.”

“Call it off?”

Roger nodded. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I could tolerate
a wife who will not heed my counsel.”

She felt a twinge of regret, and a wave of relief. “I’m
sorry, Roger.”

“So am I. Goodbye, Alisha,” he said stiffly, and taking up
his hat, he left the house.

As soon as Roger left, Alisha put on her gloves and bonnet
and hurried into town. It took her over an hour to find the man she was looking
for, and when she did, she wondered if she was making a huge mistake.

Red Clements was a short, squat man with long, limp brown
hair, squinty brown eyes, and a nose that had been broken more than once.
Alisha judged him to be in his late thirties, but his face was so lined and
brown from the sun, it was hard to tell. He wore a greasy buckskin shirt and
trousers and carried an enormous knife on one hip and a huge pistol on the
other.

“You loco, girl?” Clements exclaimed when she told him that
she was looking for a guide to take her to Apache Pass.

She had assured him she was not. Like Roger, Red Clements
tried to talk her out of making the journey. He enumerated his reasons,
counting them off on his fingers. The Comanche and the Apache were on the
warpath, there were wild animals, it wasn’t seemly for a single young woman to
be traipsing around with an old reprobate like him, it looked like rain, he had
just come back from a long journey and needed a rest.

Alicia refused to be put off. She listened patiently to his
objections and when he finally ran out of reasons, she offered him twenty-five
dollars, and when he still refused, she offered him fifty. It seemed fitting,
ironic even, that the money left to her by her father be used to find her son.
It was the fifty dollars that changed the man’s mind.

Clements studied her a moment. “What kind of business does a
little gal like you have with the ‘Paches?”

“I have family there.”

Clements shook his head vigorously. “I’m not going into
Apache Pass to try to rescue no captives. Not for fifty bucks. Not for a
hundred bucks! I value my scalp more’n that.” He turned to walk away.

“They aren’t captives.”

Clements wheeled around to face her again. “No?”

It was obvious she didn’t have any Apache blood, and just as
obvious he was wondering what kind of relatives she could have there.

“If they aren’t captives, what are they?” Clements asked.

Alisha thought about it a moment, then smiled.
“They’re…they’re guests, of course.”

“Uh-huh.” Clements looked at her oddly a moment, then
shrugged. “You’ll have to pay for our supplies, too,” he said. “Is that gonna
be a problem?”

“No, not at all,” Alisha replied, though she thought that
the fifty dollars should have covered the price of their supplies, as well.
Still, she would gladly have paid three times that amount, if she’d had it, for
the chance to find her son.

“We’ll leave tomorrow mornin’,” Clements advised. “I’ll pick
up some grub. You got a horse?”

“No.”

He grunted softly, as if he had expected that answer. “You
want I should get one fer ya?”

“Yes, please. How long will it take us to get there, to the
Indians?”

Clements scratched his head. “Usually takes me ‘bout three,
four days, but I expect you’ll slow me down a mite.” He looked her up and down.
“I reckon it’ll take us at least five days, maybe six.” He grinned. “Maybe
seven.”

“I don’t intend to slow you down, Mr. Clements.”

He chuckled. “Well, we’ll see ‘bout that, won’t we? I’ll be
by to get ya at first light. Be ready.”

“I will. Thank you, Mr. Clements.”

“You won’t be thankin’ me tomorrow,” he muttered. “You’ll be
wishin’ you’d stayed here, where you belong.”

“Tomorrow morning, Mr. Clements,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”

* * * * *

Alisha spent a good part of the rest of the day packing up
her father’s belongings. He’d had little in the way of worldly possessions—his
clothing, a shelf of books, a well-worn Bible, which she kept, along with his
silver-backed pocket watch. The house and most of the furnishings belonged to
the parish. She blinked back her tears as she left her father’s bedroom and
closed the door. She would donate his clothing and books to the church.

She went through her own clothing, putting what she would be
taking on her journey to one side and packing the rest in boxes. She would ask
Chloe to keep them for her until she returned.

With each passing minute, she grew more excited. She was
going to find her son! Mitch’s son. She wondered how tall he was, if he was
chubby or thin, if he looked like Mitch. No doubt he had Mitch’s dark hair.
What color were his eyes? She wondered how old he had been when he took his
first step, said his first word. She had missed so much. After his birth, she
had felt empty, bereft. Her arms had ached to hold the baby she had never seen.
In the first few days after his birth, she had awakened several times each
night, certain she heard a baby crying in the house. Never had a day gone by
that she hadn’t thought of her child, yearned for him. Many a night, she had
cried herself to sleep, knowing that the empty place he had left in her heart
would never be filled.

Her son, born out of her love for Mitch. She couldn’t stop smiling
as she thought of him, of seeing him. She had no doubt that she would find him.
No doubt at all.