Apache Moon (14 page)

D
UANE COULDN'T SLEEP MUCH THAT
night as he anticipated his trip to the desert with Cucharo. It would be for an indefinite period, and they'd bring weapons but no food or water. Cucharo had implied that something significant would be imparted, and Duane wondered what it possibly could be. He hadn't told Phyllis the full story because she'd spoil everything with another tantrum about Apache life. His sweet little Texas flower was becoming a double-barreled shrew.

He gazed at her profile outlined by moonlight slanting through the hole in the roof. Her beauty bloomed more every day as her body toughened and
firmed. But wickiup life didn't interest her because she'd been princess of the Bar T. Her main tasks had been office work, and horseback courier between her father and cowboys riding the range. Working animal skins, digging mescal, and gathering prickly pear fruit wasn't her notion of gracious living. She was a daughter of Texas, not an Apache squaw.

The sky became lighter as Duane dressed silently in the darkness, tied his holster to his leg, and stuffed his pockets full of bullets. A man could run into anything on the desert, including man-eating bears, Apache renegades, or rattlesnakes that you wouldn't notice until they sank their fangs into your leg.

Duane pecked his beloved wife-to-be lightly on the cheek, for he didn't want to awaken her and start another fight. Then he put on his cowboy hat, crawled out of his home, and silently made his way toward Cucharo's wickiup. The camp appeared deserted, but he knew that guards were about, watching for enemies in all approaches to the mountaintop. Apaches were the most suspicious and watchful people Duane had ever known. They see you, but you never see them.

He came to Cucharo's tent, sat cross-legged in front of the door, and waited for his master to appear. He had a mild headache from inadequate sleep, his stomach was an empty cavern, and he dozed as the leather door twitched. Cucharo poked his nose out, and Duane jumped to his feet, watching his mentor sniff the air, as if the old
di-yin
could divine truth from
the smell of the desert. “Follow me,” the medicine man croaked.

They headed for the valley, and neither spoke as dawn broadened on the horizon. Cucharo appeared to be heading toward one of the taller mountains, its summit a cap of purple rock. The old
di-yin
ascended the foothills swiftly and Duane followed close at his heels. A buzzard sat on the branch of a juniper tree, watching them hungrily. They climbed higher, and Duane viewed huge tracts of desert spread beneath him, with smoke signals in the distance. Cirrus clouds streaked the sky, and a river wound like a gleaming silver snake near the horizon. It was shortly before noon when they reached the summit.

“Sit,” said Cucharo.

Duane dropped to a cross-legged position on top of the mountain. He could make out settlements, cattle, and buildings like dots in the distant wastes. Cucharo sat opposite him, examined his face, and said, “You think I have brought you here to teach you important things, but only Yusn can teach them. This mountain is a place of power, and I will leave you here. If you are smart, you will learn. If you are dumb, you will die. Give me your gun.”

“What do you want my gun for?”

“You must be without any weapons except your knife.”

Duane wondered if it was an Apache trick. Is Cucharo trying to steal my gun?

“If I wanted to steal it,” Cucharo replied wearily, “I could've done so long ago.”

“Can you read my mind?”

“If you do not trust me, I do not care. We can go back to the camp, and you can leave with your woman. Apache warriors will escort you to the Mexican border, and you will be free.”

Duane wanted to continue his Apache education, as curiosity outweighed caution yet again. He unstrapped his gun belt and passed it to Cucharo, who said, “I am going to leave you now, and we may not see each other again for a long time. Open your heart to Yusn, and you will become a warrior.” Cucharo looked over Duane's shoulder. “Is that a snake?”

Duane pulled his knife from the scabbard in back of his belt, but there was no snake. He turned toward Cucharo, but the medicine man had disappeared. The mountaintop was barren, a gust of wind blew over the crest, and Duane felt vulnerable without his gun. Incredible distances stretched before him, and an eagle flew high in the sky.

He paced back and forth, wondering what to do. The sun hammered him. His clothes became soaked with perspiration, his hat drooped over his ears, and his mouth went dry. He walked down the mountain to the line where vegetation began, then selected the fattest barrel cactus available, drew his knife, and sliced off the top. He cut out chunks of wet pulp, sat beside the cactus, and chewed. The sweet sap rolled
over his tongue as he spotted mescal plants nearby. At least I won't starve, he said to himself optimistically.

He'd never been alone in the desert and felt jittery. He pulled his knife out of its scabbard and ran his finger along the ten-inch blade. It was sharp, but he wished it were sharper. The wood handle was attached with rivets and had seen much use.

He heard a sound behind him and spun around. The blank desert looked back at him. He wondered whether Apache renegades were sneaking up on him, to cut off his head. Wild animals lived in the area, and he didn't want to step on a sleeping poisonous spider. Maybe I should've listened to Phyllis and gone to Mexico.

The desert was a brilliantly colored panorama, while the air filled with the perfume of flowers. This place was here long before I arrived in the world and will be here long after I'm gone, he realized. He sat beside the barrel cactus, chewed pulp, and gazed at the lowlands. He'd read that southwest Texas had once been a vast sea and imagined monster fishes hurtling through endless centuries, while he was a mere speck in the flow of time.

He glanced behind him, to make sure no hungry sharp-toothed creatures were sneaking up on him. But no one was there, and he felt strangely isolated from the rest of humanity. There was nothing to do, and he hadn't slept well the previous night. He stretched out on the ground, covered his face with his hat, placed his
head on the palms of his hands, and closed his eyes. He heard the rush of wind and soon fell into deep slumber.

Miguelito sat on his saddle, stirrups adjusted for his short legs, as he rode through a forest of cottonwood trees. He examined them carefully, to make sure they concealed no robbers. Miguelito sometimes carried substantial money and was a tempting target. But he was part Apache, and his wariness never flagged.

He was born of a Mexican mother captured by Apaches, while his father had been a prominent warrior. Miguelito was raised by Apaches until he was twelve, when he and his mother were repatriated by the Mexican army.

The Mexicans treated him like an oddity; he grew up with virtually no friends, and as soon as he was old enough, he returned to the Apaches. But he didn't feel at home among them either, because he'd picked up too many White Eyes habits. So he became the ideal middle man and kept his money buried in an iron box in a secret desert spot. Someday he planned to do something with it but didn't know quite what.

A raspberry bush moved at the side of the trail, and an Apache guard arose behind it. “Miguelito, have you brought firewater?”

“Not today, but maybe next time.”

The warrior waved him onward, for Miguelito was every Apache's friend and they treated him like a
noble emissary from the outer world. He dismounted at the beginning of the narrow defile and proceeded to climb its sharp-toothed path. He knew that they'd be eager to see him, for he was their main link with the cornucopia of goods produced by the White Eyes.

It was a tough climb, but he soon came to the top of the mountain. He'd visited three other camps since speaking with the marshal, but hadn't found the American girl yet. He approached the gathering of wickiups. Smoke arose from fires, and children chased each other through the alleys. A baby bawled her eyes out in a cradleboard hanging from a bush but was ignored because Apaches believed that babies should never be coddled.

Children gathered on both sides of Miguelito, and he tossed them rock candy. Ahead, a group of women dug a hole for roasting mescal, and poker-faced Miguelito observed their hindquarters as they scooped dirt out of the earth with their hands. Then his eyes widened at the sight of a woman in American cowboy clothes. Her skin was deeply tanned, but her facial characteristics were distinctly American. That's her! he thought jubilantly. He steered his horse toward the chief's wickiup as a smile spread over his face. It looks like I've just made twenty dollars. He dismounted in front of the chiefs wickiup, reached into a saddlebag, and pulled out a bottle of white lightning.

The chief appeared at the entrance, and a grin appeared on his face. “I am so happy to see you again, Miguelito.”

Miguelito handed him the bottle of whiskey, and the chief led him into the wickiup. The fire was out, but the faint trace of woodsmoke was in the air. Miguelito filled his corncob pipe with tobacco, lit it, and passed it to the chief, who sucked the stem until his eyes popped out.

“I am here to learn what you need,” Miguelito said. “Soon I will return with my wagon, and we will trade. Do you have horses?”

“Soon we will have many, do not worry about that. I will call a council tonight, to find out what you should bring us. Do you have any news?”

“Yes,” Miguelito replied. “The White Eyes are looking for the woman that you have captured.”

The chief was taken aback. “She is not a captive and can leave whenever she wants. Her man is here, too.” The chief explained the bloody and tragic events that had brought the two White Eyes to their camp, and Miguelito listened carefully.

“The renegades must be wiped out,” Miguelito declared, “but why don't the White Eyes return to their people?”

“Because the man likes us, and Cucharo says he is part Apache.”

Miguelito didn't mention the White Eyes again because he didn't want to arouse suspicion. The old chief sipped white lightning as Miguelito reflected upon the reward. I can buy a load of whiskey, water it down, and quadruple my money in thirty days. I knew
I'd find the White Eyes girl before long. The marshal will be happy, but I wonder what's in this for him?

Duane heard a sound behind him as he awakened in the darkness. He reached for his Bowie knife; a hawk cried in the distance, and the full moon hung in the sky.

He could spot no hungry creature sneaking up on him and wasn't sure of what day it was. His mouth was dry, stomach hollow, and fingers tingled. He felt eerie and peculiar in the moonlight, and it was difficult to see clearly. Nocturnal hunters had emerged from their dens, while bats flitted across the sky. “Cucharo?”

There was no answer. Duane made his way toward the barrel cactus that he'd cut open earlier in the day. The pulp had dried, and flies buzzed around. He cut in deeper, for moist sweet flesh. Then he sat cross-legged and chewed the liquid out of it.

He reckoned that it was the middle of the night. I wonder how long I'll have to stay here? He missed Phyllis and realized that he was neglecting her, but it wasn't every day that a man could learn the Apache lifeway. Absentmindedly he touched his fingers to the scar on his throat.

Something growled behind him, his hair stood on end, and he turned around. A mountain lion stood there, glowing in the light of the moon. Duane was on
his feet in a second, poised, the Bowie knife in his right hand. The lion dropped into a crouch, ready to spring, and its claws were enormous.

Duane struggled to shift from his meditative pose to the dripping fangs before him. It looked like down and dirty to the bitter end with one of the most dangerous beasts of the desert. He held the Bowie knife in his right fist, dug in his heels, and his heart pounded wildly as he prepared for the gory encounter that loomed before him.

The lion sprang, its claws reaching for Duane's face, while Duane slashed at the great cat's belly. The animal floated closer, as if in slow motion, and moonlight glinted off its sharp claws, while its eyes sparkled like obsidian. Duane could smell the beast's rotten-meat breath as he rammed the knife in to the hilt.

His hand met no resistance, and he passed through the lion's body. As Duane spun around, the lion disappeared. Then Duane looked from side to side, wondering what had happened to the ferocious creature. He dropped to his knees and searched for tracks, but there were none where the lion had been.

Duane became afraid for the first time since Cucharo had left him. A bizarre event had occurred, and he didn't know what to make of it. He knew that he hadn't dreamed the lion because no dream could be that vivid. Or could it?

What the hell is real? He looked around, trying to understand. Am I awake or asleep? He no longer felt
in control, and it terrified him. Maybe I should go back to the camp, and to hell with this Apache business. I don't want to be a warrior
that
bad. But then he thought of Cucharo's disapproval, and even Phyllis would be contemptuous, for she was becoming an Apache against her will, with the same harsh code.