Apache Moon (10 page)

“Maybe we can't see the stars during the day, but we have our own education.”

Cucharo shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “What education?”

Duane darted to the side, spun around, and went for his Colt. The thunder of gunfire rolled across the desert, and Cucharo dived toward the ground. Duane shot the arm off a cholla cactus, the flower off a dumpling cactus, the fruit off a prickly pear cactus, and drilled a hole in the middle of a golden rainbow cactus.

The air filled with gunsmoke as the shots echoed off the mountains. Cucharo raised himself, eyes like saucers. Duane reloaded his Colt, waiting for a compliment from Cucharo, but the medicine man said nothing. Instead he sat down and continued his breakfast.

They completed the meal in silence. Duane
believed that Cucharo and the other Apaches had contempt for him, and he was determined to prove himself. When the food was gone, Cucharo rose. “Come with me.”

Duane followed him deeper into the valley, with sharp cliffs and ridges on both sides. A raven flew overhead, searching for carrion, while the sun reflected off light sand, making colors extremely vivid. The desert pulsated with radiance, and Duane wondered if last night's
tizwin
was coming back to haunt him.

Cucharo stopped suddenly again. “What do you see?”

“Dirt, plants, the usual stuff.”

Cucharo smiled haughtily, then clapped his hands once. Duane jumped two feet in the air and reached for his gun as creatures erupted from the ground all around him. Cucharo grabbed Duane's gun hand, and the Pecos Kid blinked in astonishment at seventeen Apache children covered with dirt. They'd buried themselves in the ground, waiting for Cucharo's signal.

“You are blind,” Cucharo said, “but I must do what the mountain spirits say. Before you can be a warrior, you must strengthen your body. We start when we are young, so I will leave you with the children. I hope you can keep up with them.”

Cucharo stepped backward, a crooked smile on his face, then he dodged behind a thicket and was gone. Duane found himself with Apache boys from
five to fourteen, wearing breechcloths, knee-high moccasins, covered with dirt, and grinning at the success of their trick. A little boy said to Duane, “Come with us, White Eyes.”

They turned and began to walk. Duane joined them, confident that he could keep up with mere children, Apaches or not. Then the boys broke into a trot, and Duane stretched his legs. The children darted among cactus plants, laughing and shouting to each other. Duane took deep breaths as he marveled at the vigor in the children's legs. He'd spent his childhood studying theology, whereas they ran wild like coyotes.

The floor of the valley inclined as Duane and the boys headed up the side of a mountain. Duane gasped heavily through his mouth but didn't dare fall behind. It was one thing to be humiliated by a mature warrior and another to be bested by children. The mountain became steeper, and Duane's tongue hung out as he struggled to maintain the pace. The boys taunted, laughed, and ridiculed him. If they can do it, so can I, he told himself grimly. If this is what I have to do to be as strong as an Apache, I'll give it my best.

The boot of his toe found a gopher hole, he lost his balance and raised his hands to prevent his face from crashing into the ground. As soon as he landed, little hands plucked at his clothes, helping him to his feet, and little eyes danced with delight. Duane righted himself as the children ran off again, heading toward the summit. No matter what happens, I can't let them
outrun me, he thought to himself. Taking a deep breath, he trudged after them. The children ascended the mountain rapidly, their laughter riding the breeze, while the White Eyes rampaged behind them like a tired old buffalo.

Phyllis slept after Duane left and was awakened an hour later by children talking loudly near her wickiup. Other sounds of the Apache camp came to her, and she opened her eyes. My first full day with the People, she realized. She still felt sleepy, but curiosity got the better of her. She put on her cowboy clothes, pulled on her riding boots, adjusted her range rider's hat, and poked her head outside. A little boy was standing there, and he held out his hand. “Come with me.”

Phyllis emerged from the tent. Women nearby rubbed a gooey substance into antelope hides, while more women cooked in pots. Some of the women carried babies in cradleboards tied to their backs. One warrior glued feathers to an arrow, while another chewed a length of sinew. The campsite was the scene of many activities as the boy led her to the old chief's campfire.

“Sit,” the boy said.

Phyllis dropped to the ground, wondering what would happen next. She wished Duane hadn't left her alone among warriors who looked as though they were
removing her clothing with their eyes. Her gun gave her a feeling of security as her stomach rumbled with hunger.

A young Apache woman emerged from a nearby wickiup, carrying a wicker bowl. She placed the bowl before Phyllis and said, “Eat.”

The bowl contained roots and other vegetable matter that Phyllis had never seen before. She picked up something that looked like a radish and sniffed it tentatively.

The Apache woman smiled coolly. “Do not worry, White Eyes girl. We will not poison you.”

How do I know that? Phyllis wondered as she sank her teeth into the root. The Apache woman was approximately twenty-five, with high cheekbones and Oriental eyes. Her hair was wavy, parted in the middle, flowing to her shoulders, and held in place with a red bandanna.

“My name is Huera,” she said. “I am the third wife of Delgado.”

Third
wife? Phyllis asked herself. “How many wives does he have altogether?”

“Four.”

“Don't you get jealous of each other?”

Huera smiled. “What for?”

“Don't you want him all to yourself?”

“The more wives, the less work. But only a rich warrior can have many wives. Most warriors have only one wife. But you do not have to do any work
while you are here, White Eyes girl. We will take care of you.”

“I don't mind work,” Phyllis said. “I've been working all my life. What do women do?”

“We build the wickiups, cook the food, make the baskets and jugs, work the skins of animals, take care of the children, and make the clothes.”

“What do the men do?”

“Hunt, fight, go on raids, and make their weapons.”

Phyllis could understand better why additional wives would be welcome in a wickiup. It sounded like hard work from dawn to dusk, not unlike ranch wives. Americans were permitted one wife per household, but a wealthy man could hire maids. Was it that different from the Apache lifeway? “Don't you get jealous when your husband sleeps with his other wives?”

Huera waved her hand dismissively. “What for?”

Phyllis wondered how a person could say such a thing. If Duane slept with someone else, it would be the most terrible betrayal imaginable. Is it possible for a man to love four wives? Phyllis wondered. She remembered the previous night, when she and Duane had languished in each other's arms. She'd been a virgin until a week ago, but now it was a new world.

Delgado loomed before her, wearing only his breechcloth, moccasin boots, and headband, muscles rippling in the sun. He peered intently at her, and his energy spiked her brain. She was certain that he knew
what she'd been thinking. Delgado turned away, grabbed Huera's arm, and muttered a command in Apache.

Huera didn't resist as she let Delgado pull her toward a wickiup. He pushed her inside and then he looked significantly at Phyllis. He entered the wickiup as Phyllis bit into a sweet and sour prickly fruit. He's trying to tell me something, and I think I know what it is.

She sipped water from a jug as the sun warmed her clothes. She wished she could take a bath and wondered what had happened to Duane. She'd been warned about Apaches all her life and now was living among them. Somehow they didn't seem so bad . . . yet.

She looked around the encampment, where women and men performed their specialized tasks and small children ran about like happy puppies. These are people who massacre white folks every chance they get, she realized.

Phyllis heard an ominous moan issue from the wickiup where Delgado had dragged Huera, and Phyllis's ears turned red as she realized what Delgado and Huera were doing. Delgado had grabbed Huera as if she were his personal property, and Phyllis felt revolted by the sounds issuing from the wickiup, yet somehow it stimulated her lurid imagination. She imagined handsome Delgado dragging her into a wickiup, and it didn't seem like such a bad idea. Her
hand trembled as she bit another root. Don't even think about it, she counseled herself. It can only lead to trouble, and I'm a good Christian girl, or am I?

The cavalry detachment was lined in two ranks before Lieutenant Dawes, with two wagons of supplies to the right. The men sat erectly in their saddles, campaign hats slanted low over their eyes. They'd barely returned from their last scout but now were going out again. Hatred for their commanding officer radiated from their beings as they awaited his orders.

Lieutenant Dawes inspected them coolly from beneath the brim of his campaign hat. They weren't the best soldiers in the world, but they were all he had. He'd fought Indians in the past with such men, and they seemed to do best when their lives were in the most danger.

Sergeant Mahoney rode closer, the front of his campaign hat turned up for better vision. He saluted smartly and said, “The detachment is ready to move out, sir.”

Lieutenant Dawes returned the salute. “Detachment—right face! Forward hoooooo!”

War equipment jangled, and horses' hooves thudded as the detachment moved toward the open range. Lieutenant Dawes touched his spurs to the flanks of his horse, and the animal trotted toward the front of the formation. He took his position as leader of the
detachment, his horse slowed, and he bounced up and down in the saddle.

He'd planned a longer scout than usual, but the men didn't know it yet. Just the thing to toughen them up, he told himself. He expected complaints and resistance as the days wore on but felt certain that he could handle them. They'll respect me more when this is over, because my endurance usually is outstanding.

In the recent past, whenever he went on a scout, his wife, Vanessa, had come to see him off. She and the children of the town had applauded as the soldiers passed, but now Vanessa spent her days in their former house, waiting for the divorce to become final, and the children had become bored with the Fourth Cavalry.

Lieutenant Dawes led the detachment in a southwesterly direction as he reflected upon his former wife. She was extraordinary on the outside but vain, selfish, argumentative, and impractical on the inside. There has to be something wrong with a woman of thirty-one who'd run off with an eighteen-year-old killer.

Lieutenant Dawes remembered the first time he'd met Braddock. It had been in Gibson's General Store, and the Kid had just found out that Vanessa was going to marry the U.S. Army officer. Dawes had thought Braddock was going to shoot him in cold blood, but instead the Pecos Kid had stormed away without
drawing his Colt. He obviously was afraid of me, Lieutenant Dawes figured.

I know he's out there somewhere, probably lost, with an arrow sticking out of his ass. If he's alive, I'll find him, and if he's not, at least the troopers will get some practical experience in desert living. As the old sergeants say, the men aren't happy unless they're complaining.

Dizzy with fatigue, Duane staggered to the top of the hill. The little boys pointed their fingers at him, laughing gleefully. Coughing, spitting, he tripped over his boots and dropped heavily to the ground, gulping air. He had pain in his chest, the heat was making him delirious, and he felt nauseous.

The little boys pulled him to his feet. “No rest now,” one said. “Come on, weak White Eyes. Do not let the mountain lion get you.”

They punched him with little hands and kicked him with tiny feet. Duane felt ashamed to be in such terrible physical condition, so he forced himself to his feet. The children were already speeding down the hill, jumping over obstacles, giggling happily.

Duane unbuttoned his shirt, then loosened the bandanna around his neck. His black cowboy hat attracted sunlight, perspiration dripped down his cheeks, and he struggled to follow the little boys. I'm going to die, he thought, gulping air frantically. I'll never be an
Apache or anything else, but I hope they give me a decent burial.

Phyllis wondered what to do with herself after breakfast. The other women seemed unwilling to come close, although they continuously shot glances in her direction, not all friendly. Phyllis felt as if she were unwelcome, useless, and pointless.

It annoyed her that Duane had left her alone, but she couldn't expect him to be her father. The Apache camp was outlandish, and she didn't know what was expected of her. She decided to sit tight and wait until something happened. The exuberant mating ritual had long since subsided in the nearby wickiup, and Phyllis wondered what was going on now. Delgado had four wives, and whenever he wanted one, evidently he just dragged her into the nearest wickiup. It was the strangest thing that Phyllis had ever seen, but no one seemed to think it unusual, although everyone could hear what had transpired.

Phyllis realized that she knew little about Indians, although she'd been hearing about them all her life. I should study them, and if I ever get out of here, I can teach Americans about how Apaches live, what they eat, what they wear, and how they treat their wives.

A figure appeared in the entrance of the wickiup: Huera coming outside. She walked toward Phyllis with a certain loose gait, and her face glowed with an inner
light. She appeared pleased with herself as she sat beside Phyllis. “Have you enough to eat?”

Phyllis stared at the young Apache woman in confusion, for she seemed to show no shame for what she'd done. The walls of a wickiup were just antelope skins and a few sticks, and sound carried easily from one end of the camp to another. “I'm not hungry anymore, but isn't there something I can do to help out?”