Longarm and the War Clouds (11 page)

“What in the hell were you thinking?” Longarm asked Leslie when the women's horses had been tended and tied with the others.

The party that had grown to five sat forming a ragged circle in the bowl of sandy ground in which they'd spread their gear, near the captive whom War Cloud had gagged in order to keep the brave from calling out to any of his brethren who might be lurking around.

Leslie leaned back against a rock, beside Blue Feather, knees raised, her arms around them. “I had to come and talk personally to my sister. You don't know her, Custis. No one understands her better than I do. Only I know how hard her marriage has been on Lucy. I don't think she'll come back if she knows she has to return to Anson Belcher. And I don't blame her. The only way she'll come back is if I can convince her she won't have to return to him, that I will help her get away from that man. You see, she's almost as afraid of our father as she is of Anson. I want to convince her that we'll form a united front against both men.”

Longarm considered what she'd told him. “Still,” he said, “this was a damn stupid ploy, Leslie. War Cloud and I were sent to slip across the border—just two men because two were less likely to be discovered than a whole pack.”

Leslie looked at Magpie. “What about her?”

“She's War Cloud's daughter and she can carry her own weight. Hell, she can track as well as either one of us can.”

He glanced at the young Coyotero woman. Magpie was favoring Leslie with a hard stare. That look almost convinced Longarm that she was as much a threat to Leslie as any of the Chiricahuas.

Leslie ignored the girl and turned to Longarm. “Well, we're here now—Blue Feather and I. And we're staying with you. And I think you'll see that I'm much more of an asset and less of a liability than you think. Especially when you meet my sister.”

She glanced at War Cloud. “How much farther do we have before we reach Black Twisted Pine's camp?”

War Cloud sat near their prisoner, one knee raised, an arm resting on it. “Less than a day now if he is where I think he will be—at the base of Blood Mountain. And if he is in the Shadow Montañas, that is most likely where we will find him.”

“The mountain gives strength to women?” Leslie asked.

“That is what Black Twisted Pine's people believe. Chiricahua women who've become sick in their souls go there to have their souls restored by the witch god who lives in the mountain. She in fact gives strength to all Chiricahuas who go there and perform the sacred rites—but women she endows with a special strength. Many come away from there not only healed, but they themselves become healers.”

Leslie nodded thoughtfully. “I can see why Lucy wanted to be taken there. Black Twisted Pine must love her very much to have done this for her.”

“Well, I just hope she'll be ready to leave when we finally catch up to her,” Longarm said.

War Cloud added, “I just hope the Chiricahuas won't be too angry that we have trespassed on their sacred territory . . . and killed several of their own warriors in getting here.”

Longarm winced. “There's that, too.” He glanced at their young prisoner with the two eagle feathers in his hair. “At least we have him. Won't hurt to give the Chiricahuas some incentive not to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Your arm,” Leslie said, rising and walking over to him. “Let me have a look—”

Magpie leaped to her feet and rushed over, growling in Apache and pointing at where Leslie had been sitting. Leslie looked flabbergasted.

“My gosh,” she said, clapping a hand to her chest and glancing at War Cloud. “What's she saying?”

War Cloud chuckled and shook his head. “She says to leave her medicine alone and set your . . . um . . . to go sit down and leave the big man alone. She will tend him.”

“Well, excuse me,” Leslie said, glaring at Magpie, who glared back at her.

“Ladies, please,” Longarm said.

War Cloud sighed and grabbed his rifle. “I'm going to keep watch.”

“You've had your turn,” Longarm said, reaching for his Winchester. “It's still my watch.”

“Ah, hell, Custis—I won't be able to sleep a wink with all these women around. You stay here. I doubt either one of those two is going to let you out of their sight, anyway.”

With that, the scout strode off, his rifle on his shoulder.

Longarm looked at the women still staring at each other and then grabbed his rifle. He needed to get away from the woman-heavy camp as much as War Cloud did.

He said, “You all stay here. Don't go wandering off.”

“Where are you going, Custis?” Leslie asked.

“Off to look for a little peace and quiet,” he grumbled as he climbed a low ridge north of the camp.

 • • • 

Longarm didn't realize he'd fallen asleep leaning back against a boulder until someone nudged him awake. He gave a startled grunt and started to raise the Winchester he'd been holding across his thighs, when he saw War Cloud squatting beside him.

“Easy, amigo,” the scout said, glancing at the sky. “First light.”

Longarm looked around. Sure enough, a couple of hours had passed. The first faint pearl light of the false dawn was lightly brushed across the sky in the east. The monolith of Blood Mountain stood in black relief against it.

He moved his wounded arm, winced against the heavy, dull pain of the arrow wound. As War Cloud started down the slope toward the camp, where all three women were sleeping curled in their blankets, and their captive brave sat back against the pine he was tied to, Longarm plucked his flask from his inside coat pocket and took a good-sized pull.

That eased the pain somewhat. He returned the flask to its pocket and then stiffly gained his feet and followed the scout down to the camp obscured by misty gray shadows.

Quietly, they grabbed their gear and hauled it off to where the horses were tied about forty yards away, at the base of the northern ridge. They glanced at each other conspiratorially over the backs of their horses, having decided what they were going to do without discussion.

Longarm rigged up his own horse and the brave's. When he had filled his two canteens at the freshet and hung the strap over his saddle horn, he saw the three young women moving toward him and War Cloud, weaving through the trees.

“Why didn't you wake us?” Leslie said, blinking sleep from her eyes.

“Because you're not going.”

Leslie stopped. So did Blue Feather, still so groggy that she almost ran into Leslie. Magpie kept coming, stooped beneath the weight of the saddle she carried on her shoulder.

Leslie said, “What're you talking about? I came all this way to see my sister, and that's exactly what . . .”

She let her voice trail off, frowning angrily as Longarm shook his head. He slid his Winchester into its saddle boot and walked over to the girl. At the same time, War Cloud spoke firmly in Coyotero to his daughter, gesturing vehemently with his hands.

Longarm looked down at Leslie frowning up at him. “You and Blue Feather are staying here. Magpie's going to stay with you, make sure you don't come after us.”

“No, Custis! I'm—”

Longarm pressed two fingers to the girl's rich lips, cutting her off. He tried a tender, sympathetic smile. “I know you're concerned about your sister. But War Cloud and I will have an easier time getting into Black Twisted Pine's camp if it's just him and me and our prisoner. I promise I'll tell Lucy you're here and that you want to see her. That'll likely give her added incentive to leave. If all goes according to plan, she'll be with us when we return later this afternoon.”

Leslie opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again when she saw the stern, stubborn look on Longarm's face.

“You follow us again,” he told her in a deep, commanding voice, “I'll spank your bare ass and tie you to the nearest tree.”

Leslie's eyes widened. She flushed, glanced at War Cloud, who had his lips compressed, holding back a snicker.

Magpie didn't look happy, either. She obviously wanted to finish the journey she'd started, but it appeared that she was going to abide by her father's wishes and remain here with Leslie and Blue Feather. Magpie would act as both prison guard and protector in the event that any Chiricahuas happened upon the camp.

It was a scowling trio of young women whom Longarm and War Cloud rode away from ten minutes later, Longarm leading the mustang of their captive young Chiricahua, who remained gagged and tied to his mount. When the party reached the trail, they headed north toward Blood Mountain shouldering ominously back against the lightening eastern sky.

Soon, if they were lucky, they'd find Lucy Belcher and her lover, Black Twisted Pine. If they were even luckier—probably a lot luckier—they'd be alive to see another sunset.

Given the Chiricahuas' particularly excruciating torture methods, Longarm just hoped that he and War Cloud would want to be.

As they rode through the early morning, following the Indian trail through low hills carpeted in forest and then around the shoulders of eroded bluffs and tabletop mesas, forever rising and falling over the harsh terrain, Blood Mountain seemed to remain an unwavering distance away from them.

It was almost as though the mountain were sliding ever backward away from Longarm, War Cloud, and their captive just as they tried futilely to reach it. Longarm didn't have trouble imagining that there was indeed a female spirit inside the mountain—one that enjoyed laughing at foolish men trying to court her.

War Cloud took the lead, following the trail, his rifle resting on his right shoulder. Their gagged brave with the eagle feather headband rode behind, his mustang's reins tied to the tail of War Cloud's mount. Longarm rode behind the lad, keeping his Winchester aimed at the middle of the kid's slender back.

War Cloud stopped suddenly. He peered to his right, pointed out a thin puff of dark smoke unfurling skyward. Just as the cloud thinned, another rose to replace it, and then another and another, irregularly spaced. War Cloud didn't need to explain the significance of the smoke to Longarm. The lawman knew they'd been spied, and the smoke was most likely meant to warn the main camp of interlopers.

So far, however, they'd seen no Chiricahuas themselves. In fact, the only movement they'd seen at all in these godforsaken hills were coyotes, a rattlesnake trailing a jackrabbit, and one golden eagle hunting the crest of rocky dike.

War Cloud glanced over his shoulder at Longarm, who met his partner's cautious gaze. Then the scout touched moccasin heels to his horse's flanks, and continued forward, jerking the brave's mustang along behind him. Longarm followed, staying close to the brave, keeping his index finger curled through his Winchester's trigger guard.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, there was a soft, ominous whistle followed by a thud. Again, War Cloud stopped his horse abruptly, as did Longarm. Both men stared down at the arrow angling into the red clay dirt to the right of the trail.

They were between two sandstone outcroppings. A bare-chest Chiricahua in deerskin breeches stood atop the outcropping on the right. Another stood atop the one on the left. The one on the left aimed a rifle at War Cloud and Longarm.

The brave on the right outcropping stepped forward and dropped ten feet straight down the pile of eroded, tan rock to land flat-footed and bent-kneed on a flat boulder only a few feet from where the arrow protruded from the ground. The remaining brave atop the left pile of rock steadied his rifle threateningly.

The brave on the boulder near the trail scowled at War Cloud and Longarm, then his molasses-dark eyes, ringed with ochre dye, shifted to the interlopers' captive. He spoke angrily in his native tongue too quickly for Longarm to follow.

War Cloud spoke to the stocky Chiricahua in his own tongue, using sign language that included liberal gesturing with his arms and hands. He finished with a dark glance back at his and Longarm's hostage and made an angry slashing motion across his throat.

The brave on the boulder glared at War Cloud. Then he glanced up at the brave standing atop the left escarpment. He threw his right hand up angrily and barked briefly at War Cloud.

The scout glanced back at Longarm, jerked his chin to indicate they would continue, and then touched heels to his horse's flanks once more, starting forward.

Longarm put his own horse forward, glancing at the brave on his right and then at the one on his left. His wounded arm ached more than ever as his pulse throbbed in his temples, and his throat went dry. The last way he wanted to leave this world was by being slow-roasted in a large clay pot over a Chiricahua campfire . . .

When he and War Cloud had ridden about two hundred more feet, he glanced back. The Chiricahuas were gone. In the south, the smoke signals were beginning to rise again.

He felt a bead of cold sweat dribble down between his shoulder blades when he saw several figures clad in white and red run up the side of a distant hogback, weaving amongst trees and boulders. Longarm and War Cloud must have been approaching the Chiricahua camp, and the men ahead of him were pickets signaled by whoever was sending up the smoke.

Behind Longarm, hooves thudded. He looked back again to see the two braves they'd just passed now following from about two hundred feet behind, straddling white-and-brown paint mustangs with blanket saddles and braided horsehair hackamores.

Longarm followed War Cloud and their captive up the hogback the Apache pickets had been on and checked their mounts down at the crest. Blood Mountain suddenly appeared so close in the clear, dry air that Longarm almost believed he could reach out and run his hand across its scaly surface that was not blood colored at this time of the day but a darker shade of tan.

But its nearness was a mirage.

Below him, down the far side of the hogback, a deep, airy bowl opened, revealing the small, light-brown clumps of brush houses that Longarm knew to be wickiups—traditional Apache dwellings that fit the Natives' nomadic lifestyle in that they were easy to take down and put up again. The hovels were thumb-sized from Longarm's vantage.

The canyon—walled off on the far side by Blood Mountain itself—must have been a good five hundred yards across. A single cook fire burned. At the moment it was not being tended. A dozen or so men of various ages walked out away from the small makeshift village to stare up at Longarm's party.

The warriors were either wielding bows and arrows or rifles—in some cases, both.

War Cloud glanced at Longarm and then started down the slope toward the waiting warriors. Longarm said fatefully under his breath, “Here we go,” and put his own horse down the ridge, following a switchbacking trail. He kept his rifle aimed at the back of their hostage, hoping that consideration for the brave's life would keep any of the warriors from squeezing off a bullet or an arrow at either himself or War Cloud.

On the ridge above and behind him, one of the two braves who'd been following yelled down at the others. The warriors in the canyon glanced around at one another. A low hum of Chiricahua chatter rose briefly, and then all eyes returned to the visitors.

Longarm kept his finger taut against his rifle's trigger as he followed the other two horses down the steep slope. Lower and lower they rode, dropping down toward the canyon at the base of Blood Mountain.

When they reached the canyon floor, Longarm followed War Cloud and the tied and gagged brave ahead toward the waiting group of hard-eyed warriors flanked by the wickiups, the smoking fire, and the mountain wall beyond.

It was a small band, Longarm saw. About thirteen men of various ages, none appearing much over forty. They were a young renegade band who'd remained defiantly in the Shadow Montañas, likely to keep their sacred ground unspoiled by whites until, ideally, the Apache nation had run all the whites entirely out of their territory.

As he approached the group, Longarm saw that he had been wrong about there being no one older than forty here. Lingering beyond the others was a stocky oldster with coal-black hair but a face much more wizened and craggy than the others.

Clad in doeskin the color of lamb's wool and adorned with colored beads and porcupine quills, he sat on rock near the fire. He was a small man with a pinched-up face and deep-set eyes. He held a long, ceremonial spear trimmed with colored feathers in his right hand, straight up and down on the ground.

This man, an old chief and leader of the Blood Mountain protectors, remained sitting on his rock and staring through eyes that were hard to see back within their deep, sun-seared sockets.

One of the warriors—a tall, broad-shouldered hombre wearing a deerskin tunic, his hair in braids—stepped forward. He, too, had painted rings around his eyes and three periwinkle blue slashes on each cheek. He walked up in front of War Cloud's horse and by the way the two men looked at each other, Longarm knew that they'd found Black Twisted Pine.

The two men said nothing for what seemed an hour but was probably only a minute or so.

“So they sent you,” Black Twisted Pine said finally, gravely, wrinkling one of his broad nostrils. He was a handsome man despite fairly close-set eyes and a high forehead. Longarm thought he was probably as tall as he himself was. A proud, straight, broad-shouldered Chiricahua with a regal bearing.

“Not to kill,” War Cloud said, holding up his right hand, palm out. “We want only the girl, my friend.”

Black Twisted Pine seemed to flinch at that. The others around him didn't appear to understand English. They kept their angry gazes on Longarm and War Cloud, saying nothing.

Black Twisted Pine said, “You came here . . .”

“To take Mrs. Belcher back to the fort, my friend. It is the best way for your people and the White Eyes. The major is very angry. His father, the governor, is very angry. The governor has made the Great White Father in Washington very angry, as well. No good can come of this.”

Black Twisted Pine looked at their bound and gagged captive. “You have dishonored our chief, Stalking Puma”—he glanced over his shoulder at the old man sitting on his rock—“by trussing up his grandson as though he were a calf for the white man's branding irons.”

“We will let him go, my friend, if you give us your word we will not be harmed. We have done this to the brave only for our own protection. We did not mean to dishonor the chief. We came here only to speak to Mrs. Belcher in hopes that we can convince her to return to Fort McHenry with us.”

Black Twisted Pine stared obliquely up at his ex-partner and then switched his gaze to Longarm. Repressed emotion caused his brows to wrinkle slightly. And then he said, “You want to see Mrs. Belcher? Put your weapons down and come—I will take you to her.”

Longarm and War Cloud shared a look. Then Longarm depressed his Winchester's hammer and slid the long gun into its scabbard. As War Cloud sheathed his own rifle, Black Twisted Pine spoke to the Chiricahuas flanking him. Several lurched forward, drawing knives from belt sheaths. Longarm froze for an instant, staring at the blades winking in the afternoon sun, but then the three braves surrounded his captive's horse and began sawing at the ropes tying him to his saddle.

War Cloud strode south, past the old man still sitting his rock, his wrinkled face implacable, and along the camp's perimeter. War Cloud and Longarm followed, both men looking around tensely at the other Chiricahuas. None appeared to be about to toss a knife or loose an arrow at them. That eased the worms of tension wringling up and down Longarm's spine only a little.

He was on foot now without his horse or his Winchester, and he and War Cloud were outnumbered. He could still end up in a large clay pot hung over the cook fire now smoking to his left as he and War Cloud followed Black Twisted Pine to the far southern end of the camp.

Blood Mountain rose nearly straight up at the far eastern end of the camp, the west-angling sunlight glistening on its stony surface, taking away all relief so that it looked like a massive, polished marble slab. Now it was a shiny brown. When the sun angled lower in the west, it would turn the color of blood.

Longarm and War Cloud followed Black Twisted Pine down a gradual slope. Ahead, a weird noise grew gradually louder. A warbling sound. The ridge on the right rose more steeply, narrowing the canyon between that ridge and the wall of Blood Mountain. Both Longarm and War Cloud stopped abruptly. They stared into the canyon that was roughly seventy yards across.

Longarm felt a tingling in his gut.

Ahead were a dozen or more crude scaffolds of peeled pine logs and branches. Now Longarm realized what was making the warbling sound. Birds of several varieties, including magpies and crows—all carrion-eaters—were milling around the scaffolds. They were also scrounging the bones littering the canyon floor. Skulls, thigh bones, rib cages, hands, feet . . .

All human.

“Christ,” Longarm heard himself mutter.

War Cloud stood beside him, staring gravely toward Black Twisted Pine who strode through the strewn bones, between the scaffolds. The bird's squawking and barking grew louder, angrier. Several birds took flight while others defiantly held their ground. War Cloud's scout's deep chest rose and fell heavily as his severe gaze studied the bones and scaffolds.

A Chiricahua burial ground.

Black Twisted Pine stopped suddenly and turned back toward Longarm and War Cloud. He beckoned angrily. “Come!” he yelled. “You wanted to see Mrs. Belcher. I am taking you to her!”