Apache Moon (25 page)

He turned abruptly, embarrassed by what he'd said, and faced Marshal Dan Stowe. “Do not try to find us again, White Eyes. Because next time we will kill you.”

Delgado issued a curt order to the warriors. They returned to their horses, climbed into their saddles, and paused. Delgado sat atop his mount and gazed at Phyllis one last time. Then he wheeled away from her, and the horses broke into a trot. Phyllis listened to their receding hoofbeats as they vanished into the desert.

She looked around at the water hole. It was
strange to be alone in the desert with a man she barely knew. Marshal Stowe led his horse to the water, then knelt beside the hole, filled his hat with water, and drank out of it.

Phyllis lay on her belly and lowered her lips to the water. It was cool and sweet on her tongue, with the faint taste of alkali. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and glanced at Marshal Stowe. There was something about him that she didn't like. Maybe he was too self-righteous, or perhaps it was his long, skinny nose. “If those savages told the truth about the cavalry, your worries are over,” he said gaily. “You can go back to your father, and you'll never have to worry your pretty head about Indians anymore.”

“What about you?” she asked.

He tapped the document inside his shirt pocket. “I've still got a warrant for the Pecos Kid, and I'm going after him.”

“But you know he's innocent!”

“I'm not the judge, and neither are you.”

“Why can't you wait until the warrant is overturned? What's your hurry?”

“Some people always look for the easy way out.”

“If I wanted the easy way out, I never would've run away with Duane.”

“But you're not running away with him now.”

His words struck her like bullets because they were true—she'd abandoned her man. “If it weren't for you, I'd probably still be with him.”

“So you say.”

Phyllis felt confused by conflicting emotions. She loved Duane but hated life on the dodge. Back and forth it went in her mind, like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. “There are so many outlaws in Texas—why're you making Duane special?”

“If I had a warrant for somebody else, I'd go after him just as quickly.”

“You know what I think?” she asked. “You're jealous of Duane because all the women like him. That's what it sounded like when you were talking about him before.”

“Maybe so, but until that warrant is withdrawn, I'll stay on his trail.”

“Duane's got eyes in the back of his head, and when he draws his Colt, he doesn't miss.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Marshal Stowe replied. “That's what makes it interesting.” His eyes were blank and cold in the wan afternoon light.

“I think you're a little loco.”

Marshal Stowe thought her a spoiled brat, while she considered him a sanctimonious bastard. They were glowing disapproval at each other, when they were startled by the sound of a voice. “Haalooooo.”

Stowe drew his Remington and turned toward a white man in buckskins advancing on the trail, while two Apaches in blue army shirts followed him. “My name's Krandall,” said the white man. “I'm a scout for the Fourth Cavalry. Who might you be?”

“Marshal Dan Stowe, and this is Miss Phyllis Thornton.”

“You got to be crazy, wanderin' around in Apache territory like this. And this is yer squaw, ya say?”

“I'm not a squaw,” Phyllis replied, “and the Apaches treated me very well.”

Krandall had long brown muttonchop whiskers, and buckskin fringe hung from his arms and legs. He stared at her Apache clothes and asked, “What you say yer name was?”

“Phyllis Thornton.”

“Related to Big Al Thornton back in Shelby?”

“My father.”

The scout became more respectful. “The main detachment'll be hyar any minute, ma'am.” He said something in Apache, and the two warriors moved toward the well. Krandall took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “What the hell you doin' out hyar anyways?”

“I'm on official business,” Marshal Stowe replied. “Miss Phyllis was living with some Apaches, and that's where we ran into each other.”

Krandall appeared impressed with the strange news as the rattle and clamor of cavalry could be heard approaching in the distance. Phyllis realized that her ordeal was coming to an end. She looked at her Apache clothes and they appeared foreign to her. I'm a fright, she thought, touching her hand to her tangled hair.

The first rank of the detachment came into view,
beneath the guidon of the Fourth Cavalry. They were led by their commander, gold shoulder straps gleaming through the afternoon haze, his gray wide-brimmed hat slanted low over his eyes. He sat ramrod straight in his saddle as he raised his hand in the air. His horse slowed, and a cloud of dust arose among the dusty, sweaty soldiers. They were in rotten moods as they fingered their weapons and searched for Apaches.

Krandall reported to the captain: “I found these two folks, sir. He's a federal marshal, and she's the daughter of Big Al Thornton.”

“I've met your father,” said the captain, stepping down from his saddle. He was forty years old and appeared constructed from steel rods. “My name's Turner, and I met you when you were a little girl, after I first came to this territory. I've heard about your recent antics, missy. It seems that you've got yourself into a little trouble.”

Phyllis didn't know how to reply, but Marshal Stowe performed the task for her. “She was on the dodge with an outlaw named Duane Braddock, but I found her in an Apache village and brought her out. Braddock is on his way to Morellos, and if I can borrow one of your fresh horses, maybe I can catch him.”

“I was in Shelby only five days ago,” Captain Turner replied, “and Duane Braddock is all they were talking about. They said he's innocent, and now I'm looking for Lieutenant Dawes. He and his detachment
have disappeared on a scout through this area. You haven't seen them, have you?”

A chill came over Phyllis as she remembered the Property Dance. “No, I never saw him,” she replied.

Marshal Stowe noticed her reaction. “Neither have I, but the Apaches had a load of army horses in their corral and lots of army equipment lying around. Wouldn't be surprised if they bushwhacked them.”

“Goddamned savages,” Captain Turner replied. “Texas won't be safe until every one is dead.”

Phyllis recalled praying around the fire with the women on the night of the revenge raid. It hurt her to think that the People could be massacred by the Fourth Cavalry. Meanwhile, Marshal Stowe selected a fresh strawberry roan and two troopers saddled the animal.

Captain Turner stood next to Phyllis and appraised her with concern in his eyes. “You look a little peaked, missy. We'll stay here a spell and water the horses. Living with the Apaches must've been quite an experience.” The officer chuckled as he raised the canteen to his cracked lips.

Marshal Stowe rode the strawberry roan toward them. “Guess I'll be moving on,” he said to Captain Turner. “Thanks for the horse, and good day to you, Miss Phyllis. When you see your father, tell him I hope to visit soon.”

“You're a cruel man,” she replied.

“The law is cruel, ma'am. I hope you have a safe trip home.” He laughed oddly as he urged the horse forward.
The animal took a few steps and burst into a lope. It kicked up clods of dirt, and soon the lawman was gone.

“He's liable to ride into a nest of hornets at the rate he's going,” Captain Turner said. “And besides, everybody knows that his warrant is a joke. Texas judges are crooked, but not so crooked that they'd hang an innocent man.”

“It's happened before,” she told him.

“I don't think Mister Braddock has got anything to worry about if he shot Otis Puckett. You and he'll get together again someday, missy. Now where's that goddamned mess sergeant of mine? I could use a cup of coffee.”

Captain Turner marched off in search of his cook, while Phyllis sat a short distance from the well. Soldiers set up tents for the night as she gazed in the direction Marshal Stowe had ridden. I hate that man, she admitted.

She was feeling worse about her separation from Duane. Something told her that she'd made a mistake. He needed me, but I didn't have the courage to go on the dodge. And I missed my family like a little girl. Yet if I stayed with him, there would've been trouble—no doubt about it. Duane Braddock draws it like a magnet, and I've never known it to fail. Do I want to
die
for him?

Duane Braddock arrived in Morellos at high noon two days later. He rode down the main street and passed
thick-walled adobe buildings jammed side by side. Horses carried riders or pulled wagons alongside him, and he looked about warily, uncomfortable in the miner clothes that were far too big. He wore no hat, and his long black hair was held in position by his red Apache headband. Ahead was a sign that said
GUNSMITH.

Duane angled his horse in that direction. Men sat in the shadows beneath the eaves of saloons and stores, and he knew they were watching the new face in town. He climbed down from the saddle, threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up the sack of weapons, and carried them into the gunsmith's shop.

The man behind the counter wore glasses and was reading a newspaper. “What can I do for you?”

“I've got some guns to sell.”

Duane poured the weapons out of the sack, and the proprietor looked them over carefully. He asked no questions, not even the name of the person he was confronting. “I'll give you seventy-five dollars for the lot.”

Duane held out his hand, and the proprietor dropped the coins in it. “Where can I buy a hat?”

“Down the street on the left.”

Duane saw a wagonful of something covered with a tarpaulin creaking down the center of the street, and he wondered what was being hidden. He'd never been in a border town before but knew they contained dangerous men on the dodge from all directions. He walked along the dirt sidewalk, passed El Sombrero Saloon, and came to Buckley's General Store.

Inside, a middle-aged woman was working behind the counter. “Can I help you, sir?” She was serious, mid-thirties, with a wedding band.

“I need some clothes.”

She looked at his Apache headband and then peered at his Apache moccasins. “My God,” she whispered, turning pale.

“Have you got a black hat with a wide brim, a high crown, and a neck strap?”

She gingerly wrapped a tape measure around his head, then took down a box and removed the lid. Inside was a big black cowboy hat influenced by the Mexican sombrero. “I also need a pair of jeans and a shirt.”

She searched among the shelves, while he removed his silver concho hatband from his saddlebags. He tied it around his new hat as the woman laid out shirts and jeans on the counter. He selected black jeans, a red shirt, and a black bandanna. She showed him the dressing room, where he changed clothes.

“You speak English very well,” she said.

“So do you.”

He stood in front of the mirror, and the Pecos Kid looked back at him, black hat slanted low over his eyes, conchos flashing, gun belt slung low and tied down. “How much?”

He paid the women, slung the saddlebags over his shoulders, returned to his horse, waited for a wagonload of animal skins to pass, and backed his horse into the street. Phyllis had stolen the animal from her father's
ranch, and he was spooked by his abrupt return to civilization. “Take it easy, boy,” Duane said, patting his black mane. “This isn't a picnic for me, either.”

The horse didn't know what to think as his big luminous eyes roved back and forth. He'd been leading an easy life as one of Big Al Thorton's favorite mounts, and then, before he knew what happened, people were shooting at him. Next thing he knew, he was living with Apaches who ran their horses until they dropped and then ate them. Now he was on the dodge again in a town that reeked of danger.

They came to Sullivan's Stable, and Steve the cow horse walked through the big front door. Inside were rows of brothers and sisters in stalls, the fragrance of hay, oats, and manure permeating the air. A man in his mid-twenties, wearing a smudged white hat, stepped out of the shadows. “Help you, sir?”

“I'd like to leave my horse for a few days.”

“Put 'im in any empty stall. What's yer name?”

Duane hesitated, because he didn't want to say.

The stable man grinned. “Give me any name, so I'll know who owns that horse.”

“Smith.”

“I've already got six Smiths. Can't you think of somethin' a li'l different?”

“Butterfield.”

“There was a fast hand once name of Butterfield. But he'd be a lot older'n you, if he's still alive.”

“What's the best hotel in town?”

“The McAllister.”

Duane left the stable and made his way down the street, passing saloons, a barbershop, a lawyer's office, and then the bank. He slowed as he recalled his gold nuggets. They were too big to spend, and he'd have to trade them for dollars. He pushed opened the bank door, and a teller in a green visor was seated behind the cage. “Help you, sir?”

Duane took out the leather bag and spilled the nuggets onto the counter. “I'd like to sell these.”

The teller's eyes widened. “The manager handles gold transactions personally.”

The teller sped toward the back corridor as Duane examined the shellacked wooden interior of the bank. How can anybody feel safe with his money in this place? he wondered. A robber could walk through the door and hold it up with no trouble at all. Then the manager appeared, wearing a thin black mustache and suave manners. The teller pointed to the gold nuggets, and the manager knitted his brows as he picked one up. “I'll have to assay them,” he said.