Love Forevermore (21 page)

The look in Loralee’s eye clearly expressed her horror. Mexican jails were reputed to be the worst in the world.

Zuniga nodded. “Living in a Mexican jail was worse than living alone in the hills, worse than anything I have ever known. I was beaten and starved. I spent a month locked in a dark cell with nothing to eat but stale bread and water and an occasional plate of fried beans.”

“That’s awful!”

“Awful. I thought I would go mad.”

“How did you get out of there?”

“A woman came along. She was the captain’s whore, and she liked to come down to the cells. She enjoyed watching the prisoners get punished, and she rarely missed a whipping or an execution. She was there one morning when I was being whipped for hitting one of the guards. She got mad when I did not scream and she took the lash into her own hands, determined to break my spirit. She said she would stop whipping me as soon as I cried out, but I refused to give her the satisfaction.”

Zuniga laughed softly, ruefully. “It was a stupid thing to do. She was a stubborn woman, but I was young and proud and equally stubborn, and she whipped me until I passed out,

“When I came to, I was in her bedroom and she was bending over me, washing the blood off my back.”

“Was she pretty?” Loralee asked. It was foolish to feel jealousy over a woman who had been so cruel, but she couldn’t help herself.

“No. She had a heart like ice, and eyes as cold as death. She took care of me until my back healed. She said I was going to be her personal slave because I was as stubborn as she was, and she liked that. I went along with her until I regained my strength, pretending I liked doing her bidding, until the right opportunity came along and I escaped.”

Zuniga paused briefly, as if looking back into his past, and then went on. “When I got back to Arizona, I went into the hills near the reservation. I spent a couple of days watching the place, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nachi. About a week later, Short Bear rode up into the hills. He was surprised when I stepped out in front of his horse. He told me that his mother had died and that Nachi was ill and there was no one to care for him. My uncle had lost his will to live and was no help to anyone. Short Bear was just a kid at the time, and he had a younger sister to look after.”

“And that’s when you surrendered?”

“No. I continued to live in the hills. I brought meat to Short Bear, sneaking in at night after everyone was asleep. When Nachi got better, I went wandering again. I drifted into Colorado and New Mexico, hoping to find a place where Indians still lived in the old way, but it was useless. There were no red men living free any more. They were all penned up on reservations. When I went back to see how Nachi was getting along, I learned that Short Bear’s sister had died, and that my uncle was drinking more than usual. Short Bear had gone to live with his friend Yellow Deer, and Nachi was living alone. That was when I moved Nachi into the hills. The Army didn’t like it, but we were still on reservation land, so they let us stay.”

“How long ago was that?”

Zuniga shrugged. “Seven, eight years. Time has no meaning on the reservation.”

With a sigh, Loralee snuggled against Zuniga. He had led a hard and unhappy life, but he would never be unhappy, or alone, again. Not if she could help it.

Her knowledge of the Apache language grew rapidly in the days that followed, and she felt herself slowly changing, becoming Indian in many ways. It was no longer a chore to cook outside over an open fire. Tanning a hide became easier with practice, and less disgusting, and she began to take pride in the fine robes and skins she turned into shirts and moccasins. She learned how to jerk venison, how to make ash cakes out of ground mesquite beans, tallow, and wild honey. She gathered acorns and sunflower seeds, pine nuts and juniper berries, wild plums and roots.

Each day was an adventure. She and Zuniga played together and worked together and made love beneath the bold blue sky and the quiet envious moon. Loralee’s love for Shad Zuniga grew stronger, deeper, more intense with the passing of each day. They talked often of the baby, wondering aloud if it would be a boy or a girl, if it would be dark-skinned or fair. Loralee hoped for a boy that would look like Shad, and she counted the days until her child would be born, anxious to place their child in Zuniga’s arms, eager to give him a son.

For Shad, each day was better than the last. Never had he known such happiness. He was living in the land he loved, living the life he yearned for. And he had Loralee at his side. Each day saw her becoming more Indian in her speech and beliefs, in her way of thinking. She would have made a fine warrior’s wife in the old days, he thought, and could think of no finer praise for any woman.

The long lonely days when he had lived in the hills like a wild animal faded into the mists of time, almost forgotten. The years he had spent in prison no longer mattered. Loralee’s love had healed all the old hurts, soothed his anger, and given him a reason to go on living.

Chapter Twenty

Summer came, mild and balmy. The sky was a clear cerulean blue, the trees were green and fruitful, the river water cool enough to turn away the midday heat.

Their lodge was comfortable, just big enough for the two of them, and life had settled into an easy routine. Zuniga hunted or repaired his weapons during the day, looked after the horses, and made certain everything was secure. Loralee gathered wood and water, prepared their meals, and sewed tiny garments for the baby. In the evening they took long walks together, pausing to admire the way the setting sun turned the mountains and parapets to flame and touched the valley floor with gold. Life was perfect, and Loralee would have asked for nothing more save that her child be born strong and healthy.

By the end of May, their supplies were running low. Loralee knew a moment of panic when Zuniga told her he was going to town. They had been together night and day for weeks and she could not bear the thought of being parted from him, not even for a few hours. The baby was due in less than two months, and she grew more and more apprehensive as her time drew near. Childbirth was normal and natural, babies were born every day, but not to her. This was her first pregnancy and doubts and fears plagued her mind. What if something went wrong? What if the baby was breech? What if she had no milk? What if she died? What if the baby came today, while Zuniga was away and she was alone?

She had never voiced her anxieties to Shad. He was so strong, so eternally sure of himself, she was afraid he would think her a terrible coward, unfit to be the mother of an Apache. Yet, as he held her in his arms, he seemed to know what was troubling her.

“I will be back before dark,” he promised, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Do not worry, Loralee. Everything will be fine. You are young and healthy, and I will be here to help you. Do not be afraid.”

“I can’t help it,” Loralee murmured. Closing her eyes, she held him tighter, trying to absorb his strength and confidence into herself.

“I have to go,” Shad said gently. “We need supplies.” He lifted her chin so he could see her face. “You do not want to live on nothing but meat, do you?”

Loralee shook her head. He was right, of course. They needed vegetables and fruit.

“I will bring back some seed,” Zuniga remarked. “Perhaps it is not too late to plant a garden.”

Loralee smiled. “Are you going to become a farmer, after all?” she teased.

Zuniga let out a long breath. “I cannot let the mother of my son go hungry,” he said with a wry grin. “Maybe I will buy a few chickens. And a cow.”

“Truly? Oh, Shad, that would be wonderful. We could have fresh milk and eggs.”

“Have you ever milked a cow?” he asked, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

“No.”

“Such things are woman’s work,” he pointed out. “Shall I still bring a cow?”

“Yes,” she said, laughing.

“Do not worry,” he said as he kissed her cheek.

At the general store, he bought a large supply of canned goods, fruit and vegetables, a variety of seed. He bought some soft flannel for baby clothes, a jar of ointment for cuts and bruises, a bottle of carbolic.

He gave the shopkeeper the last of his cash to pay for the supplies. Outside, he lashed his purchases onto the back of Loralee’s mare, then went down the street to the feed store. He had no money left with which to buy a cow or chickens, so he would just have to take them. You did not consider it stealing when you took something from the enemy. It was the Apache way of life. It was only stealing when you took from a friend.

He looked over the stock on hand, noted that the feed store closed at six o’clock, and then rode out of town. He found a good place to hide out until dark, tethered the horses in the shade, and stretched out to take a nap. He knew that Loralee would worry when he didn’t show up before dark, as promised, but it could not be helped.

He napped until sundown, then sat up, knowing he would have to wait a few more hours before he dared go into town after the cow and chickens.

He gazed into the darkness, content to wait as Nachi had taught him to wait, until the time was right. Then, slow and silent, he made his way to the feed store. It was a simple thing to break a window. Inside, he grabbed a burlap bag, tossed three chickens inside, and climbed out the window. In the corral behind the store, he dropped a rope around the neck of a young heifer and led her out of the pen.

“That’s far enough,” a voice warned. “One more step, and I’ll empty this scatter gun into your back.”

Zuniga froze, his eyes searching the shadows. Three men materialized out of the darkness. One of them was the clerk from the general store. The second man owned the feed store. The third man was the town marshal.

“Get those hands up,” the marshal ordered. “Clem, get his gun. Luke, put the cuffs on him.”

Zuniga swore softly as the men walked toward him. It was now or never, he thought, and with a wild cry, he darted for the cover of the trees a few yards away.

“Luke, get down!” the marshal bellowed, and as the owner of the feed store hit the dirt, the marshal pulled both triggers.

Zuniga stumbled and went down as a dozen pieces of buckshot riddled the backs of his legs.

“Get him!” Luke shouted, and the three men had Zuniga surrounded before he could regain his feet.

Luke Croft was a vengeful man, and he grinned as he placed a well-aimed kick into Zuniga’s ribs.

Shad gasped as the air was forcibly driven from his lungs. He heard a sharp crack through the red haze of pain that dropped over him and knew Croft had broken a rib.

“Luke, that’s enough,” the marshal warned.

“Is it?” Croft retorted. He grinned with satisfaction as Clem cuffed the Indian’s hands together. “Dirty redskin thief,” Croft growled, and drove his fist into the Apache’s face. Blood spurted from Zuniga’s nose and mouth.

“Luke, I said that’s enough!”

“Dammit, Frank, the man tried to steal my livestock.”

“I know what he did, Luke. And he’ll get what’s coming to him. Now let’s get him over to the jail. Clem, help me get him to his feet.”

Zuniga winced as Clem and the marshal grabbed him under the arms and yanked him to his feet. The backs of his legs felt as if they were on fire.

“Let’s go, Injun,” the marshal said. He jabbed his rifle barrel into Zuniga’s spine. “Move it. And don’t try anything funny.”

Teeth clenched, Zuniga turned and started back toward town. Each step sent bright shafts of pain shooting along his ribcage and down the backs of his legs but he kept moving. And all the while he was cussing himself for being a fool and getting caught. And for what? A couple of scrawny chickens and a slat-sided red heifer.

His trousers were soaked with blood when they reached the jail. The marshal locked him in a narrow, windowless cell, then sent Clem for the doctor.

With a low groan, Zuniga sank to the floor, refusing to sit on the cot that smelled of stale sweat and vomit. His legs ached and each breath was an effort, but he hardly noticed the pain. He had to get out of there. He had to get back to Loralee.

There was the sound of voices and laughter, and then the marshal and the doctor entered the cellblock. The doctor was short and thin, with a shock of wavy white hair and canny blue eyes. He paused at the cell door, and nodded to himself when he saw that the prisoner’s hands were securely cuffed.

Zuniga scrambled to his feet and backed against the far wall as the doctor and the marshal entered his cell.

“Take it easy, son,” the doctor said quietly. “I just want to help.”

“I do not want your help,” Zuniga hissed.

“That buckshot has got to come out,” the doctor explained in a slightly bored voice. “You don’t want an infection, do you? Could get ugly. Gangrene, maybe, and then you’d lose your legs. You don’t want that, do you?”

Zuniga stared at the doctor, his distrust of white men showing in his eyes.

“I’m telling you the truth,” the doctor said. “Why don’t you drop your pants, then stretch out on that bunk on your belly and let me take a look?”

With a sigh of resignation, Zuniga did as bidden. He’d be no use to himself or Loralee until his wounds were taken care of.

“I’ll need some warm water, Frank,” the doctor said as he opened his well-worn medical bag and took out a pair of rubber gloves and pulled them on. “I’ll need some whiskey, too, if you’ve got it.”

The marshal nodded and left the cell, locking the door behind him.

“Not too bad,” the doctor murmured as he examined the wounds. “Most of them aren’t in too deep.” Rummaging around inside his bag again, he withdrew a pair of long-nosed tweezers and began to remove the buckshot.

The marshal returned a few minutes later with a bowl of warm water and a bottle of rye whiskey.

“That’s fine, Frank,” the doctor remarked. “Give me a hand here, will you? Here, take this cloth and mop up the blood so I can see what I’m doing. Dammit, man, did you have to use both barrels? One would have stopped him.”

Zuniga endured the doctor’s ministrations in stoic silence. It was humiliating, being forced to lie on his belly with his pants down around his ankles while the doctor and the marshal took care of his injuries, talking and laughing as if he were a dumb beast who couldn’t understand their crude jokes. One piece of buckshot had lodged deep in the muscle of his left calf and he clenched his teeth as the doctor probed around inside the wound.

Finally, with a little cry of satisfaction, the doctor finished the task. Hefting the whiskey bottle, he took a generous drink, then slopped the clear amber liquid over the backs of Zuniga’s legs. It was all Zuniga could do not to scream out loud as the fiery liquor penetrated each wound.

“Hell of a waste of good whiskey, doc,” the marshal lamented with a good-natured grin.

“Not really. We got all kinds of new ointments to stop infection, but I still think the old-fashioned way is best.”

“Whatever you say, Ben, just save a little for me.”

“To be sure, to be sure.”

“Uh, Ben, you might check his ribs, too,” the marshal muttered. “Luke gave him a pretty good kick. I think maybe he busted something.”

Zuniga feared he might pass out as the doctor examined his ribs. Gritting his teeth, he fought the waves of nausea that engulfed him as the doctor’s hands probed his side.

“Broken, all right,” the doctor announced matter-of-factly. “Nothing to do but bandage him up tight and let nature take its course.”

He pulled a strip of cloth from his bag, wound it tightly around Zuniga’s ribcage, bandaged Zuniga’s legs, picked up his little black bag, and left the cell, whistling softly.

“Put your pants on, Cochise,” the marshal said with a sneer. Locking the cell door, he started after the doctor.

“Marshal.”

The lawman stopped. “What is it?”

“My horses are about a half mile out of town.”

“I’ll take care of’em.”

Zuniga stood up slowly, cursing under his breath. What a mess he had made of things. Loralee would be worrying by now, wondering what had happened to him.

He swore aloud, tormented by the thought of her spending the night in the mountains alone. The chances of anything happening to her were slim, but there was always a chance.

Face grim, he lay down on the floor of his cell, willing the pain in his legs to go away, keeping his breathing shallow in an effort to subdue the ache in his ribs. There was no way to get comfortable. He couldn’t lie on his stomach, and lying on his back was almost as bad. Damn, what a hell of a mess!

Loralee stared toward the entrance to the stronghold, her hands clasped to her breasts. Where was he? Why didn’t he come? She knew, deep in her heart, that something had gone wrong. He was hurt, or dead, and she was alone. He had taken her horse to carry their supplies and she had no way to get out of the mountains except on foot, and she could not walk out. It was too far, especially for a woman in her condition.

She paced back and forth in front of the wickiup the whole night long, praying that God would help her. She had never felt so helpless, so alone. She kept the fire burning bright, but even the cheerful blaze could not lift her spirits.
Shad, Shad, where are you? What am I going to do without you?
She placed her hand over her abdomen as she felt his child give a lusty kick.

“Oh, Shad,” she sobbed, and dropping to her knees, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

Mike Schofield stared at the telegram in his hand, frowning as he read the message for the second time. “Urgent. Come to Bisbee Jail immediately. Zuniga.”

Schofield felt a hard knot of fear form in the pit of his belly. Something was wrong with Loralee. He knew it.

Twenty minutes later he was riding hard for Bisbee. If anything had happened to Loralee, Shad Zuniga was a dead man.

Zuniga stood up as the door to the cellblock swung open and Mike Schofield strode into view. It was an effort to stand. Each breath brought new pain to his broken ribs, and the backs of his legs were sore and tender. But he did not allow his discomfort to show on his face. A warrior did not show weakness in the presence of a known enemy.