Apache Flame (29 page)

“I think I’ll bed down outside,” Clements whispered. “There
ain’t ‘nough room in here to skin a cat.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” He looked at Alisha. “Do you
mind sleeping outside?”

“No.”

Moving into the center of the wickiup, Mitch he looked for
his mother, his anxiety easing a little when he saw her sleeping peacefully
between the daughters of Fights the Wind.

Taking Alisha by the hand, he followed Clements out of the
lodge. Pulling a blanket from the back of his horse, he handed it to Alisha.
“Find us a place to bed down. I’ll be along as soon as I take care of the
horses.”

“Mitch…”

The pain in her voice tore at his heart. “I know, darlin’.”

She looked up at him, and even in the dim light, he saw the
tears in her eyes. “He can’t be dead. He can’t be! I’d know if he was.”

“I’ll go back to the
rancheria
tomorrow,” Mitch said.

“I’m going with you.”

“All right. Get some rest now.”

She nodded. Wrapped up in her grief, she found a place to
spread the blanket. She huddled there, her hand over her mouth to stifle her
sobs.

* * * * *

“Yore gal all right?”

Mitch glanced over his shoulder at Clements. “As well as can
be expected, I guess.”

“I’m sorry about the boy.”

“We’re going back to the
rancheria
tomorrow.”

“Back? You reckon that’s a good idea?”

“Probably not, but she won’t rest until she knows. And
neither will I.”

Clements nodded. “What do you reckon happened to Elk Chaser?
He should have made it here before us.”

“I don’t know.” Mitch stripped the rigging from Alisha’s
horse. The movement set his wounded arm to throbbing and he swore as he dropped
the saddle to the ground, then tethered the animal to a tree.

Wordlessly, Clements picked up a handful of grass and began
rubbing his horse down with it. Life was hard sometimes, he mused. Damn hard.
“I’m heading out tomorrow myself,” he remarked. “My wife back in St. Louis
probably thinks I’ve been kilt. Course, I’ve got to stop by and visit Mountain
Sage afore I head east.” Clements looked over at Mitch and grinned. “Ain’t
easy, keepin’ two women happy.”

“Yeah,” Mitch replied dryly. “You look real upset about it.”

“Well, I do my best. Iffen you want, I’ll ride on back to
the
rancheria
with ya.”

“Obliged for your offer, but I think your women probably
need you more.” Mitch stared into the distance, thinking about his son. Rides
the Buffalo had been well taught in the ways of survival. He was a capable
hunter. He knew how to find food and water and shelter. But, dammit, he was
still just a four-year-old boy. A boy with a broken arm and a bum ankle.

Clements nodded. “I hope you find him.”

“Thanks, Red.”

“Iffen ya ever need me, send word to the Jicarilla, or leave
a message for me at the hotel in Canyon Creek.”

* * * * *

“I don’t remember what happened,” White Robe said. “One
minute we were running up the hillside, looking for a place to hide, and the
next, I woke up here.” She clutched Mitch’s hand. “Please find him for me,
ciye
.
I must know if he’s… I must know.”

“I’ll find him, Ma,” Mitch promised. “I’ll bring him back to
you.” The words dead or alive, though unsaid, echoed in his mind.

“What of Elk Chaser?” White Robe asked.

“I don’t know. No one has seen him.”

White Robe closed her eyes. “I fear he is gone.”

“Ma?”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. “He would have been
here by now if he could.”

“He saved my life, you know?”

White Robe shook her head. “How?”

“During the battle, a Blue Coat had me in his sights. Elk
Chaser killed him.”

White Robe smiled faintly. “He told me of a vision he had,
in the cave after he was wounded. He said he wanted to join with his ancestors
but he was told he could not, that if he did, one who was alive would die. And
now…”

“Ma.” Mitch squeezed his mother’s hand. She looked frail
lying there, older. A bullet had grazed her left temple during the battle, and
he found himself staring at the cloth wrapped around her head, thinking how
close he had come to losing her.

“He is gone,” she said. A high-pitched keening, like that of
a wounded animal, rose in her throat as she turned her back to him.

Mitch felt a swift surge of hatred for the U.S. Cavalry, for
the misery they had caused his wife and his mother. He rubbed his shoulder. He
had a score to settle, too, he thought. Runners had already been sent to advise
the other clans of the treachery of the Blue Coats. Soon the warriors would
gather together to seek vengeance for their dead.

Mitch blew out a deep breath, knowing he would ride the war
trail alongside his mother’s people to avenge the lives Elk Chaser, and his
son.

* * * * *

They left the canyon at first light. Alisha knew that Mitch
could have made the journey faster alone, but she refused to be left behind to
wait and wonder. If Rides the Buffalo was alive, she wanted to be there when he
was found and if he wasn’t…she wanted to be there for Mitch.

She looked over at him. He wore a clout, leggings and
moccasins. His buckskin shirt was stained with blood. She stared at the hole
near his shoulder, shuddered to think how close she had come to losing him.

She studied his profile. He had changed somehow. There was a
new hardness about him that hadn’t been there before, an anger that she sensed
simmering just beneath the surface.

He had always kept his feelings to himself. Even as a boy,
he had never willingly shared his pain with her. He was hurting now, she
thought, both physically and emotionally. Growing up, he had always gone
running to his cave to nurse his wounds. She had often followed him there,
refusing to leave even when he told her to go away. Sometimes she had just sat
there quietly so he wouldn’t be alone; sometimes she had ignored his harsh
words and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight until she felt the
hurt and anger seep away.

That morning before they left the canyon, she had asked him
if his head hurt, if his arm hurt, and he had shrugged and told her not to
worry, he was fine.

But he wasn’t fine. She had seen his face when he told his
mother goodbye that morning, seen the pain in his eyes, heard it in his voice.

They rode steadily all that day, stopping only briefly to
eat and rest the horses.

Once, far off in the distance, they saw a cloud of dust.

“Soldiers,” Mitch muttered. It was the first word he’d said
in hours.

She felt her own tension mount as the hours passed. Mitch
had said they would reach the
rancheria
by nightfall, and with every
passing minute she grew more and more aware that the waiting would soon be
over. She tried to prepare herself for the worst even as she hoped for the
best.

He couldn’t be dead, not when she had just found him. She’d
had no time to talk to him, no time to get to know him. She didn’t know what
his favorite color was, if he was ticklish, if he liked sweets, if he shared
her allergy to strawberries.

They rode all that day, stopping only once to rest the
horses. Alisha was bone weary by the time they reached the entrance to the
rancheria
.

It was near dusk when they reached what was left of the
village.

Alisha felt the sting of tears as she glanced at the carnage
the soldiers had left behind, at the blackened lodge poles, at the burned
remains of the Indian dead. A small breeze stirred the ashes from a cold cook
fire. And over all hung the acrid smell of death.

“‘Lisha?”

“I hope he hasn’t seen this.”

“Yeah.” Mitch glanced around. They couldn’t stay here.

Reining his horse toward the river, he found a smooth
stretch of ground. Brush and trees screened the village from sight.

Dismounting, Mitch offered Alisha his hand and she slid out
of the saddle. He wrapped his arm around her and held her close for a moment.

She could feel the tension in him, see it in the clenched
muscles of his jaw.

He held her a moment more, then led her horse to a tree and
began to unfasten the cinch.

“Here,” she said, “let me do that.”

“I can do it.”

“Your arm…”

“I said I can do it.”

She bit down on her lip to keep from arguing, watching while
he stripped the rigging from her mount, then tethered the horse to a tree.

“Why don’t you set up camp?”

“What are you going to do?”

He swung onto the back of his horse. “I’m gonna go have a
look around.”

“Mitch…”

“I won’t be gone long.”

He rode out of the burned out village, heading for the
broken land where Rides the Buffalo had been found when he ran away. The boy
had told him that he liked to go there to be alone, even though his mother had
told him time and again that he was not to go there alone.

He felt his anger rising, growing stronger, as he passed
lodge after lodge that had been looted and burned. The unfairness of it, the
waste of lives and property…he shook his head. Living in the west, he was aware
of the constant warfare between the Indians and the whites. He knew there had
been atrocities on both sides. He had heard of ranches being attacked, horses
and cattle stolen, families killed, homes burned. Several years ago, the
Mimbreno chief, Mangus Coloradas had entered an enemy camp alone, intent on
making peace. Two armed guards had been placed over the chief. One of them had
heated a bayonet in the campfire and stabbed Mangus Coloradas in the leg. When
the warrior sprang up, the guards both fired their rifles at him. There had
been bloodshed and violence on both sides. Being somewhat caught in the middle
of both worlds, Mitch had never taken sides, knowing that both Indians and
whites had legitimate grievances, but this attack was personal. His son was
missing, and most likely dead. His mother was wounded. Her husband was missing.

He scoured the ground for sign, but it was impossible to
distinguish one small set of prints from the dozens and dozens of footprints
and hoof prints.

“Rides the Buffalo, can you hear me?”

Mitch reined his horse to a halt, listening as his voice
echoed off the canyon walls…
hear me…hear me…
Please, Mitch thought,
please hear me.

He rode onward, nearing the crevasse where Rides the Buffalo
had fallen, the only sound that of his horse’s hooves on the hard-packed
ground. Every movement jarred his wounded shoulder, and he cursed the Blue Coat
who had shot him.

He swore again, recalling the battle, the odd sense that he
was fighting himself as he took aim against one of the troopers. As a lawman,
he had killed white men before. It had been part of the job. But fighting
against the U.S. Cavalry… He shook his head. There was no way to explain it. He
didn’t understand it himself.

“Rides the Buffalo! Son! Can you hear me?”

“Here.”

Mitch jerked his horse to a stop, his gaze sweeping the
area. Had he really heard a voice? “Rides the Buffalo, answer me.”

“Here. I am over here.” Relief washed through Mitch like a
tidal wave. Swinging out of the saddle, he ran toward a jumbled pile of rocks
and boulders. As he drew closer, he saw a small hand emerge through a gap in
the rocks.

Dropping to his knees, Mitch peered into the pile of rocks.
“Hello, son. Are you all right?”

“I’m hungry.”

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Mitch reached into the
narrow opening and lifted Rides the Buffalo out. The boy moaned softly as Mitch
gathered him into his arms.

“Sorry, son,” Mitch said, quickly loosening his hold on the
boy. Setting Rides the Buffalo on his feet, Mitch quickly checked him over. His
broken arm was still wrapped in deer hide. The wrap around his foot had worked
its way loose and Mitch saw that his ankle looked more swollen than before.
Mitch noticed he wasn’t putting any weight on it. His arms and legs were scratched,
there was a cut on his cheek.

Carefully, he lifted Rides the Buffalo into his arms and
placed the boy on the back of his horse, then vaulted up behind him and clucked
to the horse, eager to get back to Alisha, to see the look on her face when he rode
up with their son.

* * * * *

It hadn’t taken much time to set up camp. Alisha spread
their blankets on a smooth stretch of ground, used a piece of wood to dig a pit
for a fire, put their foodstuffs within easy reach.

She paced a small area for several minutes and then, as if
drawn by some invisible cord, she ventured up the path toward the village.

She picked her way through the wreckage, remembering her
trepidation when she first arrived, remembering how Mitch’s mother had made her
feel welcome.

A few items remained miraculously intact: a doll made of
cornhusks, a single moccasin, a clay pot. She picked up the pot, recognizing it
as one that belonged to White Robe. A terrible sadness engulfed her as she
looked around, remembering how the village had looked only days ago, filled
with men and women she was just beginning to know. In the short time she had
been with the Apache, she had found them to be a warm friendly people, nothing
like the savages the people in town claimed they were.

With a sigh, she turned away from the ruined village and
made her way back to the river. She shivered as darkness spread her cloak over
the land.

Where was Mitch?

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Where is my mother…?” Rides the Buffalo asked, and then
said quickly, “I mean, where is White Robe?”

“She’s waiting for you at the place of the talking trees,”
Mitch said. He pulled back on the reins a little, slowing his horse’s pace to
avoid jarring the boy any more than necessary.

“And my…where is Elk Chaser?”

Mitch considered a lie, but there had already been too many
lies told. “I don’t know, son.”