Apache Moon (6 page)

“What'll you do if you run into Apaches?” Mr. Gibson asked, flicking an ash off his stogie.

“The trick is not to run into them in the first place.”

“They say they got eyes in the backs of their heads.”

“So do I.” Marshal Stowe placed his boot toe into the stirrup and raised himself into the saddle. “If any letters come for me, hold them till I get back. And if I
don't get back, forward them to the U.S. Marshal's office, San Antone.” The lawman touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat as the horses pulled into the street. He settled into the saddle, adjusted his hat low over his eyes, and rode toward the edge of town, rocking in the saddle with the motion of his horse's hooves.

He'd gone on many man-hunting expeditions, and it was a matter of simple persistence, unless the Apaches had found Braddock and Miss Thornton first. At the edge of town, a door opened in front of a familiar house and a tall blonde wearing a purple ankle-length dress appeared. Marshal Stowe pulled back his reins and the horses came to a halt beside Mrs. Vanessa Dawes. She looked at him solemnly and said, “I understand that you've spoken to my husband.”

“He refused to withdraw his charges, ma'am. I'm sorry.”

“That bastard!” she said bitterly. Then she tried to smile. “Just promise me one thing.
Please
don't shoot first and ask questions afterward. And
please
be gentle with him. I know that you have no reason to trust me, but Duane really is a decent boy. I can look you straight in the eye and tell you that he isn't a murderer.”

Marshal Stowe couldn't help grinning at the fervor of her plea. “What about all the people he shot, and the ones he punched in the mouth?”

“There's always some bully who wants to pick a fight with him. Is he supposed to lie down and let them do it?”

He placed his arm on the pommel and leaned toward her. “Mrs. Dawes—if it will help your beautiful head to rest more easily at night, I promise that I'll be extremely reasonable with Duane Braddock, and I won't rattle him in any way.”

“God bless you,” she replied with a sigh of relief.

He touched his spurs to the belly of his horse, tipped his hat, and the animals plodded on to the darkening sage.

S
MALL, DARK HUTS WERE SCATTERED
over a hilltop in the midst of ravines and steep gorges. A waterfall in the distance made a constant dull roaring, and sentries were posted high on the ridges, watching for the approach of enemies. If Duane hadn't come here himself, he wouldn't have believed that people could live in such a remote godforsaken spot.

The huts were as tall as an Apache, constructed of branches and animal skins. The entrances all faced east, and they were small hovels with no windows, quite different from tepees of the Plains Indians or hogans of the Navaho. Duane, Phyllis, and the warriors advanced toward the camp, while Apaches of both
sexes and all ages emerged from the huts. The women wore buckskin skirts and blouses, while the men had on white breechcloths, moccasin boots, and red bandannas. They jabbered excitedly to each other as Duane maneuvered his horse alongside Phyllis's. The Pecos Kid and the rancher's daughter looked into each other's eyes significantly. Both knew that they might be torn from limb to limb in the minutes to come. He reached out his hand and grabbed hers, for that last bit of warmth. They squeezed, and she made a brave smile. “We'll be just fine,” she said, trying to convince both of them.

Apaches swarmed around Delgado, asking questions in their rasping language. The chieftain replied, and a woman began to wail. The wounded boy was lowered to the arms of another woman. The villagers appeared disturbed and a few glowered accusingly at Duane and Phyllis.

“If they come for us,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, “just fight them until they kill you. It's the easiest way, according to what the old cowboys say.”

Phyllis set her mouth in a grim line. It looked like Apache women were about to attack, and she wished that her fingernails were longer. “They'll never take me alive,” she said evenly.

One group of Apaches made a circle around the boy, and the rest surrounded Duane and Phyllis. Delgado alighted from his horse and broke through the crowd. He looked up at Duane and said, “Get down.”

Duane and Phyllis lowered themselves to the ground, and the Apaches inched closer. Duane and Phyllis tensed, waiting for the first knife thrust. Then Delgado launched into an Apache speech while the others listened intently. Duane's flesh crawled at the sight of so many vicious savages. He gazed into their eyes and saw bottomless incomprehensibility. He'd heard stories of white men being skinned alive, or tied to cactus plants with rawhide, and as the rawhide shrank, it pulled you slowly into death from a thousand sharp needles. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold himself together.

Next to him, Phyllis was pale as the wisp of a cloud floating across the sky. She'd lived a pampered life and had never been on her own before. But she swore that she wouldn't whimper and cry, even if they burned her at the stake. She was Big Al Thornton's daughter, and she'd fight them till her dying breath. Women wailed and shrieked at the edge of the crowd. It was bizarre, and Phyllis's hair stood on end. Then Delgado turned toward Duane.

“Follow me.”

Duane looked in his eyes for the lie, couldn't find it, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. You couldn't trust Apaches, and it appeared that the worst was yet to come. Delgado waded into the crowd, and the Apaches made a path for him. Duane tried to orient himself but had no point of reference. They could be anywhere, and possibly even in Mexico. He followed
Delgado through a sea of faces, some expressionless, others openly hostile. Duane was certain that a hatchet would fall on his head at any moment.

His hand found Phyllis's, and they squeezed tightly. He looked at her, and her jaw was set firmly. She was ready to go down fighting, and his heart swelled with pride for the courage of his woman. “If I have to die,” he told her, “I'd rather do it with you than anybody else.”

“Thanks, Duane,” she replied dryly, for she wasn't eager to die under any circumstances.

Delgado led them closer to the huts, and Duane examined pots, baskets, and bones lying on the ground. The children were naked except for breechcloths and red bandannas, jumping around like monkeys. A screech arose from the far side of the camp, and Duane shivered at the inhuman sound. Stew simmered in pots atop small fires that emitted no smoke, and the food didn't smell bad to two Texans who hadn't eaten all day. It appeared that they were headed for a hut in the midst of the others.

“Wait here,” said Delgado. Then he ducked and disappeared into the hut. Grunts and murmurs could be heard from within, while Duane and Phyllis held each other's hands tightly and tried to be hopeful. They'd arrived at the residence of somebody important, who presumably would pass judgment.

A flap of antelope skin at the door to the hut was pushed to the side. Delgado emerged and stood
respectfully to the side, like a guard at Buckingham Palace. Duane's eyes were drawn to the tent flap, from which a great personage would doubtless come forth. A gnarled brown hand appeared, the flap exploded, and a tall, husky Apache came into view, with the face of a cruel old man, the corners of his mouth turned down. He wore the standard knee-high moccasin boots and white breechcloth, with a blue cavalry officer's shirt and a belt that supported a knife and a pistol of strange manufacture. He peered intently at Duane, who braced himself for the worst.

The old man opened his semitoothed mouth and delivered an oration in his exotic tongue. Duane didn't know whether it was a welcome to Apache Land or a death sentence. It went on for some time, and Duane glanced at Delgado, to catch a hint of what was being said, but Delgado was expressionless, like a statue carved from mahogany.

Then the old chief reached forward, and Duane realized with a jolt that he wanted to shake hands. Duane expected a sneaky Apache trick, but all he could do was reciprocate. The old chief clasped Duane's hand warmly in both of his and muttered something unintelligible.

Delgado interpreted the statement. “He thanks you for saving the life of his grandson, and wants to give you five horses. He is Pinotay, our chief.”

Duane had no need of five horses, but all he could say was “Tell him that we thank him for his generosity.”

Delgado relayed the message, and the chief smiled. Then he launched into another oration as the crowd listened devoutly. Once again Delgado interpreted. “He says that you and your woman can stay here as his guest, until the posse stops looking for you. Then you can go on your way.”

“Do you think we could have our guns back?”

Delgado spoke with the chief, who issued orders. The warrior who'd jabbed his knife into Duane's throat stepped forward, with Duane's Colt jammed into his belt. He drew the gun and protested vigorously. An argument ensued among several warriors, the chief, and Delgado. It appeared that the warrior didn't want to give up the gun.

Duane looked at Delgado. “What does he say?”

“That is Gootch, and he says that the gun is rightfully his, since he won it from you.”

“But he didn't win it from me,” Duane protested. “He stole it from me while I was asleep.”

Delgado relayed the message, and Gootch jumped up and down furiously, slammed his fist into his palm, glowered at Duane, and issued a statement in a bloodcurdling voice.

“He says that you have insulted him,” Delgado interpreted. “If you want the gun, you will have to fight him for it.”

Duane looked at Gootch, who was two inches shorter than he, but with thick corded arms and a barrel chest. He appeared as though he could break
Duane in half, but Duane had fought bigger men before and knew that you had to maintain your distance, pick your shots, and systematically beat them down. But fighting an Apache wouldn't be a mere barroom brawl. Apaches were said to be even worse than Comanches.

“Don't even think about it,” Phyllis cautioned. “You wouldn't stand a chance.”

Duane felt more like a coward every moment. He looked at Gootch and imagined blood dripping from his fangs. This is the kind of Apache who burns people upside down on wagon wheels. Duane wasn't afraid of white men, because white men had a certain code that he understood, but an Apache was unknowable. He wanted to back down but couldn't say the words.

Then the chief spoke again and proceeded to deliver another major statement. It went on at some length, and Duane wondered what he was saying. It was like President Grant delivering his State of the Union Address. Finally the chief completed his statement and turned toward Delgado for interpretation.

Delgado smiled faintly. “This chief has said that a White Eyes cannot be expected to fight a warrior from the People, because White Eyes are so much more frail than the People. So no disgrace will come to you if you do not fight Gootch, who is an experienced warrior and has killed many enemies in the past.”

Apaches looked at Duane with pity in their eyes,
while others were openly contemptuous. “What about my gun?” Duane asked.

“This chief will give you one of his.”

“I want my own gun.”

“I am sorry, but Gootch will not give it up.”

Duane turned toward Gootch, who smiled triumphantly and murmured something that sounded like an insult.

“What did he say?” Duane asked, a deadly edge to his voice.

Delgado coughed. “I did not hear.”

“What was it?”

Delgado sighed. “White Eyes, why don't you keep quiet while you are ahead?”

“My name is Braddock, and I want to know what he said.”

“Duane,” Phyllis said, “this is no time for a temper tantrum.”

The Pecos Kid ignored her as he glowered at Delgado. “I'll ask you once more—what did he say?”

“He said that . . . you remind him of a girl he knew once.”

It felt like a slap in the face, and the old familiar rage and shame ignited in the orphan's belly. Gootch winked and made another remark.

“What did he say that time?” Duane asked.

Delgado frowned. “White Eyes, you've had a long day. Why don't you lie down and rest for a while?”

“I asked what he said.”

“He said that it would be a disgrace for a warrior such as himself to fight a puny White Eyes like you, but perhaps you might want to fight his wife for the gun?”

A silence came over the gathering, and Duane was aware that the chief was peering at him intently. Maybe I can punch Gootch into submission, but if he ever catches me in his arms, he'll crush my ribs.

“I think it's time for you to be sensible,” Phyllis offered. “Why don't we lie down for a while?”

“I'm not tired,” Duane said, his eyes fixed on Gootch.

Gootch burst into laughter at the mere thought that a feeble White Eyes would want to fight him, but the orphan was extremely sensitive, and derisive laughter was the cruelest insult he knew.