Apache Flame (26 page)

Mitch looked at his mother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “I took the child from a
trader. He knew nothing of the baby’s birth,” she paused to glance at Alisha,
“save that the mother did not want it because it was of mixed blood.”

“That’s not true!” Alisha exclaimed. “My father told me the
baby was dead.”

“More lies,” White Robe remarked. “I did not realize the
child was yours until Otter said you had come here looking for your son. I knew
then that he was the father of Rides the Buffalo.” She smiled sadly. “Rides the
Buffalo is very like his father. I noticed it often as he was growing up. I did
not know then that Otter was his father, and I thought it was only my
imagination, that I was only seeing the similarities between them because I
missed my own son.”

White Robe looked at Mitch, her dark eyes filled with love
and pain. “I love your son. I could not love him more if I had carried him in
my womb.”

“
Shi ma
…”

“Please do not take him from me.” White Robe looked at
Alisha. “I know he is your son, but he is also my son.”

“I understand,” Alisha said. “I know this must be very
difficult for you, but I love him, too. My arms have been empty for him all
these years.”

White Robe nodded. “But you will not take him now. He needs
time to heal.” She took a deep breath, fighting the urge to cry. “He needs time
to…to get used to the idea that I…I am not his true mother.”

“We’re not taking him anywhere, Ma,” Mitch said. “At least
not right away. Isn’t that right, ‘Lisha?”

“Yes. We have to think of Rides the Buffalo’s feelings. We
must make him understand that we all love him, that he hasn’t lost those he
loves.”

Relief was visible in White Robe’s face. “Thank you, my
daughter.”

Alisha smiled as she looked at White Robe and Elk Chaser.
“We’re all family now,” she said, squeezing Mitch’s hand. “And we have to do
what’s best for our son.”

Chapter Thirty

Alisha snuggled closer to Mitch. A glance at the smoke hole
showed that the sky was growing light. It would be morning soon. The thought of
seeing Rides the Buffalo now that he knew he was her son filled her with
trepidation. She tried to imagine what he must be feeling, thinking. No doubt
it had been a terrible shock. She prayed he would give her a chance to explain,
that, after she had told him everything, he would understand, that he would
accept her.

She looked at Mitch, sleeping peacefully beside her and
envied him. She had hardly been able to sleep at all. Rides the Buffalo had
cried twice in his sleep. She had awakened instantly, every instinct urging her
to go to him, but White Robe had always been there, crooning softly to the boy,
offering him a drink of water, soothing him with her touch and her soft words.
It had pained her to hear her son call another woman s
hi ma…
mother.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes, praying that somehow
everything would work out.

* * * * *

Alisha woke with a start, the last vestiges of her dream
vanishing in the low rumble that met her ears. Thunder? She rolled over to look
at Mitch, saw that he was on his feet, hastily pulling on his leggings,
grabbing his rifle.

“Stay with my mother!” He gave her a quick hard kiss that
felt strangely like goodbye, then ran out of the lodge.

Elk Chaser and Red Clements streamed out behind him.

Alisha sat up. “What is it?” she asked White Robe. “What’s
wrong?”

“Soldiers.”

There was a wealth of meaning in that single word.

White Robe threw a blanket around Rides the Buffalo’s
shoulders, then glanced at Alisha. “Hurry.”

Alisha stood up, the tension in the lodge a palpable thing.
She heard another rumble, and realized it wasn’t thunder. It was gunfire.

She pulled her tunic over her head, took the sheathed
hunting knife that White Robe thrust at her. Following White Robe’s lead, she
tucked the sheath into her belt, then followed the older woman out of the
lodge.

Outside, women and children and men were running in a dozen
directions. Carrying Rides the Buffalo in her arms, White Robe fell in behind a
group of women who were running toward the broken ground where Rides the
Buffalo had fallen.

Alisha glanced over her shoulder. Warriors, some afoot and
some on horseback and some barely old enough to be warriors, were moving toward
the entrance to the stronghold. In the distance, she caught sight of Mitch.

She stared after him, torn between her need to be with him
and the need to go with her son, to protect him.

“Alisha!”

She turned at the sound of her name, saw that White Robe had
stopped and was waiting for her.

“Hurry, Alisha. We must hide. You cannot help Otter now.”

White Robe was right, of course. There was nothing she could
do. With a prayer in her heart, she hurried after White Robe and the other
women and children.

* * * * *

Mitch stood near the
rancheria’s
entrance alongside
Elk Chaser and Red Clements.

“Look!” Elk Chaser pointed down the narrow entrance,
gesturing at the four Indian scouts riding ahead of the soldiers. “
Gusanos!”

Mitch wasn’t sure what the word meant, but a cuss word
sounded pretty much the same in any language. He remembered thinking that a few
good warriors could hole up here and hold off an army, and that might have been
true if the army didn’t have Apache scouts riding with them. He swore under his
breath. There was a second entrance to the
rancheria
; no doubt the
scouts knew where it was.

The first clue they had that the back entrance had been
breached was the high-pitched scream of a woman, followed by several gunshots.

Half the warriors gathered at the front immediately struck
out for the back entrance.

And then all hell broke loose as the narrow entrance to the
rancheria exploded, sending dirt and chunks of rock flying in every direction.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Army scouts
had made their way to the entrance sometime in the night and planted a few
sticks of dynamite.

The explosion was deafening.

Soldiers poured through the defile, shooting at anything
that wasn’t wearing sweat-stained cavalry blue.

The shrill war cry of the Apache rose in the air as the
warriors fought to defend their wives and children. Dust and grit filled the
air, along with the roar of rifle fire and the acrid stench of gunpowder. And
over all the cloying scent of blood, the sharp stink of fear.

Mitch took cover behind a tree trunk, methodically firing at
every soldier that came into range. All around him, men were engaged in combat.

Adrenaline surged through him, backed by a powerful rage
against the soldiers who had attacked his mother’s people without provocation.

Elk Chaser and Red Clements fought close by, their earlier
wounds forgotten as they fought for their own lives and the lives of the women
and children.

It didn’t take long to realize that the Indians were
outnumbered. More and more soldiers poured into the Apache stronghold. The
warriors began to fall back, disappearing into the rocks and crevices, leaving
no more trace than smoke drifting on the wind.

“Come!” Elk Chaser shouted.

Mitch turned to follow, with Red close behind him, only to
run into a fresh wave of soldiers. Mitch raised his rifle, sighting down the
barrel at one of the soldiers. He squeezed the trigger, only to hear the hammer
click on an empty chamber.

A slow smile spread over the soldier’s face as he fired his
gun.

Mitch reeled backward as the bullet plowed into his right
shoulder near his collarbone. There was no pain, but his arm and hand went numb
and he dropped the rifle.

He was reaching for his knife with his left hand when pain
exploded through the back of his head.

As from far away, he heard Elk Chaser shouting his name. He
tried to answer, tried to move, but to no avail. And then he was spiraling
down, down, into a turbulent sea of pain and darkness…

* * * * *

He regained consciousness slowly, aware of a burning pain in
his shoulder, a dull pounding ache in his head. Noise hovered around him—the whinny
of a horse, the muffled cry of a child, the harsh rattle of death, and over all
the high-pitched keening of women grieving for their dead.

Opening his eyes, Mitch turned his head slowly to the right,
and then the left. He was lying on a blanket on the ground. Someone had slapped
a bandage over the bullet hole in his shoulder. Lifting his left hand, he felt
a bandage swathed around his head. An army surgeon stood a few yards across the
way, dispensing medical aid and orders. A private stood at the doctor’s elbow
to assist when needed.

Feeling unutterably weary, Mitch closed his eyes again,
wondering where Alisha was…

Alisha! Ignoring the pain that lanced through him with every
movement, Mitch struggled to sit up. He had to find Alisha, had to find his mother
and his son.

“Here now,” the doctor exclaimed, hurrying toward him. “Lay
down, you damn fool!”

“I’m all right,” Mitch growled.

“Like hell. Anyway,” the doctor went on, gesturing at
Mitch’s ankles. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Frowning, Mitch followed the doctor’s gaze, a foul oath
rising to his lips when he saw the shackles hobbling his feet. “What’s going
on?”

“I reckon you’ll find out soon enough. Now, just lay back
there and rest. We’ll be pulling out as soon as I finish up here.”

Ignoring the doctor’s orders, Mitch sat up and took a good
look around. There were two rows of wounded. He was with the Apache injured.
Wounded soldiers were spread out a few yards away, shaded by a tarp someone had
fashioned from a couple of deer hides.

Five bodies, shrouded in blankets, awaited burial.

The bodies of the Indian dead—men, women, and children—had
been piled in the center of the village like so much refuse waiting to be
burned.

A small group of women and children were huddled to one
side; about two dozen warriors, their hands bound behind their backs, were
hunkered down a short distance away. He recognized Elk Chaser among them.
Standing a little apart, also shackled, was Red Clements. Four armed troopers
guarded the prisoners.

Damn. Where was Alisha?

Soldiers moved among the lodges. Mitch felt his anger rise
when he saw they were looting the wickiups, taking bows, arrows, robes, lances,
and whatever else caught their eye, for souvenirs, then torching the lodges.
Soon, the crackle of flames and the scent of smoke filled the air.

Other Blue Coats were rounding up the horses, herding them
toward the entrance of the stronghold.

Two hours later, the village had been destroyed, the wounded
who were well enough to ride were mounted. The others had been loaded on travois.

The captives were on horseback, hands lashed behind their
backs, their feet secured to the stirrups.

Mitch was at the rear of the line of prisoners. He was
beginning to hope Alisha had escaped when he saw her being escorted to her
horse by a tall, good-looking soldier who helped her mount, then adjusted her
stirrups, smiling all the while. Mitch was overcome by the sudden urge to smash
his fist into the soldier’s smiling face.

Alisha settled herself in the saddle, her gaze roaming over
the captives, coming to rest on Mitch’s face. “Are you all right?” She mouthed
the words.

Mitch nodded. “You?”

Alisha nodded, her expression worried.

“Have you seen my mother? Rides the Buffalo?”

Alisha shook her head, then turned as the soldier spoke to
her. She looked at Mitch, her heart in her eyes, as the soldier led her horse
to the front of the column.

A bugle sounded. The soldiers mounted and fell in.

Mitch took a last glance over his shoulder, hatred filling
his heart as he looked at the devastation the soldiers had left behind. He
stared at the bodies in the center of the village, wondering if his mother and
son were among them.

Chapter Thirty-One

The ride down the mountainside was hell. His arm ached, his
head throbbed unmercifully. But worse than the physical pain was the agony of
not knowing if his mother and son were dead or alive. He clung to the hope that
they had escaped, that they had found a place to hide. If they were alive, they
would seek shelter with one of the other bands.

They had to be alive. He couldn’t have found his mother
again after so many years only to lose her now. And his son…

Mitch closed his eyes, remembering his initial shock when
Alisha had told him he was a father, remembering his fear when he looked over
the edge of the crevasse and knew Rides the Buffalo was down there, the
wondrous sense of awe that had swelled within his heart when he held his son in
his arms. His son. He had been unprepared for the protective feelings that had
risen within him as he held the boy in his arms, the sudden, overpowering
realization that he would do anything necessary to ensure his son’s survival.
And later, watching the medicine man treat the boy’s wounds, he knew he would
gladly have endured the pain in his son’s place. The thought of losing Rides
the Buffalo now, of never seeing him again, was like a knife in his heart.

Please, God, please let them be alive.

He rose up in his stirrups a little, trying to see Alisha,
but she was too far ahead.

Settling into the saddle, he closed his eyes again. There
was nothing he could do now but rest and wait.

* * * * *

Alisha breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the
bottom of the narrow mountain trail. Turning her horse around, she lifted one
hand to shade her face from the sun as she watched the rest of the column make
its way down the trail.

Soldiers first, then the captive Apache, then more soldiers
followed by the Indian scouts. Traitors, she thought. She scanned the riders
for Mitch, wondering how badly he had been hurt. She saw Elk Chaser and Red
Clements among the captives. She had been surprised when one of the soldiers
took Red captive. Later, she had heard two of the soldiers talking about him,
calling him a squaw man and a renegade because he sided with the Indians.