Leather Sleeves
APACHE CAMP,
It was shortly before sundown when John Cannon and Tom
Jeffords reached the Apache camp. It had
taken most of the day to ride east along the old Butterfield Stage road to the
San Pedro river, then south to the Dragoon tributary, where they had followed
the dry arroyo into the mountains. John
had a nagging feeling that they were watched every inch of the way, though he
could not detect a reason for feeling this way.
The Apaches knew Tom Jeffords very well, however, so he felt safe
enough. The agent was one of the few
friends the Chiricahua had in
On
reaching the camp, John noticed two Apache sentries standing in the rocks of
the pass high above him, seeming to appear out of nowhere. Each held and old rifle and wore colorful
headbands that offset their jet-black hair and copper complexions. He knew they were, in essence, welcoming the
white men into their camp. Had they
intended harm, they would never have let themselves be seen. Apaches did not reveal the location of their
base camps to people they did not trust.
John
and Jeffords moved their horses up through the pass and crossed a saddleback
ridge, moving out into a relatively flat area between rows of wickiups made of
brush and mud. Smoke from several fires
swirled about, giving the scene a foggy and unreal appearance, and several of
the Apaches watched them in silence from beside the fires where they stood or
squatted.
Compared
to white men, the Chiricahua lived poorly.
Civilization had given them many things they valued, including metal,
firearms, horses and clothing. Despite
these leaps in technology, the Apache heart remained much as it had always
been. Many struggled to keep their
traditions and way of life intact in a world that was making them obsolete
almost overnight.
By
white standards, most of the Apaches were barbarians. All of them knew how to hunt, to track, to
kill, scalp, and pursue merciless war.
They were so fond of clothing they stole from their enemies that they
often wore it until it rotted off.
Rather than discard the old rotting shirts, the men often merely put a
new one over the old one. Most of the
Apache John had met rarely bathed.
Whether this was from preference or merely a lack of water he was never
sure, but he had only witnessed them bathe in alpine regions. The closest they usually came was in sweat
lodge ceremonies.
The
younger warriors, especially those on the move, usually wore little clothing,
preferring only a shirt, a breech cloth and moccasin boots, and occasionally a
vest. Almost all the warriors wore
headbands, many of which were brightly colored.
For the most part, they were a short, stout people. There was much about the Apache that was
admirable from the white man's point of view, and much that most whites
considered despicable. John had always
tried to focus on the good in people, however, and he reminded himself of that
fact as they dismounted among the wickiups.
The
Apache were very skilled at surviving in their desert homeland. They were relentless trackers, fierce
warriors, and crafty tacticians. They
were also, in their own way, honorable, even by white standards. Most Apaches kept their word flawlessly, and
most responded well to fair treatment and returned the same. Once crossed or cheated, however, they tended
to anger quickly, and were not prone to forgiveness. Retribution was usually immediate and brutal. They had been raiders for centuries and were
not used to backing down from anyone.
The need for change was upon them, yet they struggled, not knowing how. They were a stone-age people caught in a
clash of times, at once both ancient and modern. Most of them just wanted things to remain as
they had always been, yet that was impossible.
The
The
sad part was there was no way to halt the mighty migration of American settlers
from the east. It had been tried, time
after time, since the colonists had first landed on the continent, and it had
never worked. There was no way to
preserve what the Apache had known before the coming of the Spanish or the
white man. In clashes of culture
throughout history, older peoples had continually given way to those with
better technology, and this was no different.
The Apache would adapt to the changes and survive, or they would fail to
adapt and die. It was merely the way of
things.
The
best thing a man could do, John thought soberly, was to answer his own
conscience; to treat each Apache as a human being, the same way anyone wanted
to be treated. The Golden Rule was still
the best guide, even with the deadly Chiricahua. It would not stem the tide of settlers, nor preserve
the old Apache ways, but it might reduce hatred and the bloodshed, and there
was far too much of both in
Jeffords
tied his horse to a clump of screwbean mesquite, then walked toward a wickiup
in the center of the camp. John followed
suit, and several warriors stopped to watch.
Many might not have known John Cannon personally, but they all knew he
was the owner of the High Chaparral, the white man who held the most power
between
An
Apache stepped from the wickiup as John and Jeffords approached. The Apache was of medium height and dressed
in a calico shirt, with a leather vest and a bone necklace. His hair, parted down the middle, was
shoulder-length and worn loose. The
sadness in his eyes was immediately apparent to John, who knew the Apache had
to be suffering terribly, for his people were stoic by nature and not given to
public displays of pain.
"Ha'andah,"
the Apache said, welcoming them, and Jeffords smiled and repeated the same word
in return before turning to look at John.
"Big
John, this is Taza, the eldest son of Cochise."
John
nodded toward Taza, who acknowledged him but did not smile, but instead began
conversing softly with Jeffords in Apache.
Suddenly, the conversations quickened, and they switched to Spanish. After a few moments of such quickly changing
discussion, Jeffords turned around and looked at John again.
"Taza
says that his father is very ill," Jeffords said. "From the sound of things, we'll be
lucky if he lives through the night.
I've told Taza why I have brought you here, and he has agreed that it's
best to get the white boy back among his own kind. We'll go in and see the old man if he's up to
it, but he's really weak now, and I don't want to tire him too much."
Jeffords
spoke to Taza again in Spanish, and Taza nodded and walked away, disappearing
into the dark brown wickiup. A moment
later, another warrior left the wickiup and started toward them.
"That's
Naiche," Jeffords said.
"Cochise's younger son."
Naiche
was dressed in a cotton shirt buttoned at the throat. He sported a brilliant yellow headband, and
carried a faded red-and-white saddle blanket over his left arm. Naiche's dark hair was longer than Taza's,
and his cherry-black eyes held no humor.
He gestured with his right hand, and Jeffords started for the
wickiup. John followed, squinting as he
stepped inside the smoky interior, his eyes trying to adjust to the dim light.
Cochise
lay in a pile of blankets, his head propped against a side of the wickiup,
holding a yellowed gourd cup in one hand.
He looked up as they entered, and John was astonished at how weak and
tired the famous Apache leader looked.
They had met before on several occasions, and each knew the other well
enough, but always Cochise had been strong and healthy-looking. Cochise had never been one to smile, but he
had always exuded a kind of vitality that most men would call charisma. Now, however, he lay weak, with gray
streaking his once-black hair, and looked at them with dull eyes. His face brightened a little when Cochise
realized who his guests were, and he greeted Jeffords warmly in Apache, then
looked at John and took in his massive presence.
"Buenos
dias, Senor Cannon," he said.
"Buenos
dias, Cochise," John replied with a smile.
"It
is good that a man sees men that he respects before he dies," Cochise
said. "What brings the Tall One
among my people?"
"Senor
Jeffords does," John replied.
"It seems there is a white child living with your band,
Cochise. Mr. Jeffords here has asked me
if I can take this boy off your hands and return him to his people. I've come to do so, if it can be arranged."
Cochise's
eyes narrowed in confusion, and he spoke to Taza quietly in Apache. Taza replied quickly, as did Naiche, and
Cochise closed his eyes a moment before speaking to John in English again.
"My
sons tell me there is indeed a child of the white eyes living with us. I did not know this. My son tells me this child was brought here
some days ago by some of our people from another band. They claim to have found this child in the
desert."
"The
white child will be a problem if the Army finds out about him," Jeffords
said, stirring the coals in the fire with a small stick. John noticed the way Jeffords squatted flat
on his heels, almost exactly as an Apache would. "I doubt even General Howard would
understand his being here, living with the People."
Cochise
was silent for a while, and John thought for a moment that the old chief had
fallen asleep, but then Cochise opened his eyes and gripped his stomach. He was obviously in much pain, but he
remained stoic and did not cry out, waiting until the spasm stopped before
replying to Jeffords.
"You
are right, my friend. Your heart is
good, for you think first for the welfare of my people. The whites would not understand this, any
more than I would understand one of our children living among them. I would not have let the child remain if I
had known he was here. There was a time
when I would have known, but I am sick now, and many things pass by that I do
not see, like winter clouds past the moon that shines on the mountains."
Naiche
squatted and refilled the gourd cup with tiswin, the Apache beverage that most
approximated white man's beer. Cochise
took the gourd and sipped a little before continuing.
"My
son tells me that this white child is very brave. That his father died out in the desert,
before the men brought the child here.
Even as a captive, this child has shown he is brave. One of the families has considered him for
adoption." Cochise sipped more
tiswin, and reflected a moment before going on.
"Many winters ago, a white boy came among us. Today he is called Mickey Free, but in those
days he was just a small boy. He was
taken from the whites when some Coyoteros raided a ranch south of
"We
all remember Cut-the-Tent," Jeffords said softly. "It is a good point. No good can come of a child held captive by
another race."
"Taza
has told me it was Nednhis who brought the child to my camp."
"Not
exactly," Jeffords replied.
"He was brought by the warriors who were following Pionsenay, your
head medicine man."
Cochise's
eyes flared at the name, and for a moment, John saw not a sick old man, but
once again the fierce leader of all Chirichaua.
The one he had known since arriving in
"Pionsenay!"
Cochise spat, showing bitterness.
"He does not spread his blanket with the Chokonen now! He has joined the Nednhis to fight the
Mexicans."
"Some
of your men ride with him," Jeffords said softly.
John
watched with a kind of fascination. He
had known Cochise for some time, and always the man was straight-forward and
strong; a man of definite power and decision.
Yet, as he watched, Jeffords, a white man, actually chided a warrior who
was arguably the most dangerous Indian chief in the southwest, leading him
along as if he were a child. John had
never seen a white man with the amazing kind of influence among the Apache that
Thomas Jeffords seem to possess.
"Yes,
some of my young men ride with him," Cochise admitted. "Too many have bad hearts for the
Mexicans. Too many of my people have
lost parents and friends to them. The
Nednhis come among them, and stir them up, like flies among the horse
dung. To young men, Juh is now the true
warrior chief of the Apache, for he still fights. Many young think that he should lead the
Chiricahua. They have forgotten that I
have fought the Mexicans and the whites, and that I never surrendered. I made peace, yes, but of my own will. I was
never taken prisoner by an enemy. I made
peace, not as a prisoner, but as a man.
"I
fought the Mexicans long and hard, but the whites were different. There were too many of them, and my people
were too few. I am old and tired now,
and my people cannot win against the white eyes. It is better to make peace and live, than to
continue to make war and die. To live in
peace, we must not raid the Mexicans, for they are like little birds who sing
to the white eyes, and make the soldiers come.
My people need a path that does not end in death from the
bluecoats. That is why I have made peace
for my people. The young, who are
hot-blooded and full of youth, call me an old woman now, and say I can no
longer fight. They have forgotten my
wars; forgotten my deeds. That is as it
has always been. They are young; they
have no wisdom. They were not there when
I fought, and they do not think of their people's fate, but only of their own
honor. They cannot help this. The Nednhis keep their hearts in flame."
"Perhaps
it would be best if Pionsenay were not here," Jeffords offered.
"He
has already left with his men and gone south," Cochise replied. "Taza says that he left this morning."
Taza
stepped forward out of the shadows, his features dark in the gloomy light. His eyes still held an endlessly sad
expression, though John was not sure if it were due to his father's condition
or to his people's fate.
"Leather
Sleeves is with Coyani's family," Taza said in English.
"Leather
Sleeves?" John asked, lifting his eyebrows. He looked at Jeffords, who chuckled silently.
"The
warriors are fond of nicknames," Jeffords replied.
"The
white boy had leather on the arms of his shirt," Taza added.
"Leather?"
John asked, trying to picture leather sleeves.
"Most
likely elbow patches," Jeffords said.
"He
is being kept by Coyani's family," Taza said. "They are poor. The white eyes have killed two of their sons,
and now they have only one son to help them.
They wish to adopt Leather Sleeves to replace one of the sons that the
whites have taken."
"Replace?" John looked at Jeffords in confusion.
"That's
the way the Apache see it," Jeffords told him. "The whites took a son from them, so
it's only fair the whites repay that debt by giving one of their own sons to
replace him."
John
sighed, then stood and faced Taza squarely.
He had dealt with Indians many times, enough to know how this must be
handled. If the boy was truly loved by
the Apache family, only force would ever get him back, for the Apache would
protect him as one of their own. He had
seen that happen often enough among tribes like the Kiowa and Comanche. Many times, when such adopted children had
been "rescued," they had already become Indians themselves, and had
suffered as much from the separation from their Indian families as they had
from being stolen from the whites in the first place. Many were the cases of white children reared
among Indian tribes, who had come to love the Indians and their way of life far
more than their own.
John
knew that such situations usually only occurred after the children were held in
captivity for long periods of time, and had been formally adopted into an
Indian family. An adopted person was not
a prisoner. They actually were full
members of the tribe. After enough time,
a child literally became an Indian.
Based on what Jeffords had told him, however, this white child had only
been here for a few days, and the chances of any permanent bonds forming in
that amount of time were pretty small.
Which also probably meant the Apache family did not truly love the child
yet, and were only considering his adoption.
If that were the case, the best thing to do was ransom the boy quickly.
"What
is this child worth to you?" John asked.
Cochise
looked at Taza, then drank his tiswin again as his son answered. It was obvious that Cochise was in pain, and
quickly losing interest in this conversation.
"Leather
Sleeves would fill the need for a son who has been taken from the family,"
Taza said tersely. "He would
provide food from the hunt, and care for them in old age."
John
remained silent, regarding Taza firmly.
He knew the Apache was merely posturing, pitching a deal to get the most
for the family in question, as well as trying to save face for his father. It seemed to John that not all of the Apaches
were in agreement as to what should be done with the white boy, and yet John
knew he could let Taza save face for them all.
Patience was the best tactic in an Indian trade.
"Leather
Sleeves is not yet a warrior, however," Taza added. "It will be many winters before he can
hunt and fill a warrior's place. The
family has fed the child with their own food, kept him warm in their own
wickiup. They have suffered for his welfare.
These good people should be repaid enough to make up for that loss. Three horses, I think. That will be enough."
John
worked his jaw and tried hard to appear to be thinking it over. To be sure, from the Apache way of thinking,
three horses was a preposterous price, since the boy was not a true family
member, but merely a captive stolen from a white family. On the other hand, from a white man's point
of view, what were a few horses compared to a sane life for a young child? If it would allow him to get the boy out
peacefully, John would readily agree to pay a hundred times that amount. Negotiation was almost always a better option
than fighting.
To
simply agree with Taza's price, however, would make him appear weak, and the
Apache did not respect weakness. To lose
their respect at such a time could lead to disaster. They expected him to drive a hard bargain,
and could not appear to disappoint them.
"Two
horses," he said at last, and quickly added, "And I'll throw in four
beeves to ease the family's suffering."
Taza
stared at him and blinked, his expression carefully hidden. After a moment, however, Taza nodded. It would be enough. He turned to leave.
"I
will take you to Leather Sleeves. Come."
John
turned to look at Cochise, and the chief was slurping at the last of the tiswin
in the gourd, trying hard to get drunk and avoid the pain in his belly.
"I'm
glad to see you again, Cochise. It has
been too long," John told him.
"And
I am glad to have seen you again, Tall One," Cochise replied, and then he
looked at Jeffords, staring at the old man for several moments before
speaking. "I am old and sick. Do you think you will ever see me alive again?"
"No,
old friend," Jeffords said sadly, and John saw mist in the man's green-blue
eyes. "I don't think I will. I think that by tomorrow night you'll be
dead."
"Yes,
I think so, too," Cochise said.
"About
Jeffords
looked at John a moment, and John shrugged, not knowing what to say. After a moment, Jeffords looked back at
Cochise.
"I
don't know. What's your opinion about
it?"
Cochise
nodded and looked firmly into Jefford's eyes.
Once again, he was suddenly his old self for a moment, and his
cherry-black eyes twinkled, though his mouth never smiled.
"I
have been thinking a good deal about it, while I have been sick here,"
Cochise said. "I believe we
will. Good friends will meet again—up
there."
Cochise
pointed with his finger to the sky above the roof of the wickiup.
John
stepped forward and placed a firm hand on the old chief's shoulder, and was
surprised at how frail the man felt underneath his blankets and clothing.
"I
think you will pull through yet, my friend," John told him softly. "Nothing has ever managed to steal
Cochise from his people."
The
old chief nodded at that, and met his eyes.
The Apache's eyes were calm and accepting, but he shook his head.
"Not
even Cochise can escape death," he said.
"Death is the great tracker, the Life Taker who hunts us all our
lives. The tracker can be thrown off
sometimes, but he always find the trail again.
When the tracker catches us, we die.
That is the way of the world.
That is the way of Usen, the Life Giver."
"It
has been my great honor to see you again," John said at last. "If you get well, you must come and
visit me at the High Chaparral."
"I
have," Cochise said. "Many
times, but you did not see me. There was
a time when my people owned all of that land.
Not as you now own it for the spotted buffalo, but as a wild and open
land. We rode across it without apology
and without pause. Then the Spanish
came, and then the Mexicans. Then the
first white eyes along the Gila, the beaver hunters. They were followed by the miners. Today, it is the ranchers who come. The others have paved the way for you. Now it is your land. My time is past. Your time is here. That will be all right, I think. You are a man of honor, Tall One. My people will remember you well."
"As
will mine, you, sir."
"Maybe. But I am an Indian. I think many will not. Go now, find this child and take him home to
his people. I would like to talk, but I
am tired. I would like to spend some
time with my family now."
"Of
course. Good night."
John
stepped out into the darkness of night, and Jeffords exited a moment
later. Taza was still waiting, and he
turned and headed for a wickiup at the end of the camp. Jeffords turned back at the door and leaned
inside.
"Live
well, my friend," he said.
"For
a while longer, yet," came the reply.
"He
looks bad," John said quietly to Jeffords as they followed Taza through
the darkened camp, and the other man paused to rub a dirty sleeve against his
eyes.
"Too
much grit and dust," he explained.
"How
long has Cochise been like that?"
"He's
been in and out of his head for the last few weeks," Jeffords
replied. "Drunk on tiswin most of
the time. His stomach pains him
something awful, and the drink is the only thing that eases it. He won't last much longer, John. We're lucky we got to see him at all. I just hope he's worked out his succession
for the Chiricahua."
"You
mean there's doubt? Doesn't his son take
over if he dies?"
"You'd
think so," Jeffords admitted.
"In my opinion, that's most likely exactly what'll happen. He's left word for his people to forever live
in peace, and to do exactly as I advise them to do, but there are a few
contenders."
"Oh?"
"Yep. Medicine man name of Eskinya is one,"
Jeffords said. "He's trouble,
though, sure as the sun's hot. He'll
cause these people a lot more grief afore he's through. His brother is even worse."
"Brother?"
"Yep,
a wild buck by the name of Pionsenay.
You probably remember us talking about him. Runs with a bunch of renegades under
Juh. Absolutely hates white men, and
hates Mexicans even more. What makes
matters worse is that Cochise's sons, Taza and Naiche, can't stand either of
them. A blood feud is brewing between
the two families. Sooner or later, some
of them are going to start killing the others, sure as rain. I just hope Cochise's family wins. Cochise's
war chief, Nahilzay, is also a possible contender, but Nahilzay is very loyal
to Cochise, and will follow Taza if that's what Cochise's decides. No matter what happens, though, Big John,
times are changing, and I swear I don't know if it's for better or worse. If one of those hotheads uses the old man's
death to lead a raid off the reservation, there'll be hell to pay all along the
border. If that happens, it'll give the
Army exactly the excuse they've been looking for to remove these people once
and for all. That's the worst part of
it. Scamps like Pionsenay lead the rest
of the People right into the hands of the Indian haters."
They
walked along in darkness, amazed at how subdued the camp noises were at
night. Approaching the wickiup that Taza
had entered, John stopped to talk to Jeffords some more.
"You
ever feel banished up here, Tom?" John asked. "I mean, living up here with the Apache
and all. Ever feel cursed by all of the
bigots in
"There
are times, Big John. There are
times," Jeffords admitted.
"Them rascals in
"Well,
there is a lot of raiding going on south of the border, Tom. You honestly believe there's no chance it's
Cochise's men who are making them?"
"Five
years ago I'd have said it was Cochise," Jeffords replied. "He give everybody hell, and then some,
back in those days. Wily rascal he was,
too. But today? No.
Cochise has promised to stay at peace and he's done as he promised. Some of his young bucks, sure, they sneak off
to do mischief, but he's never sanctioned it.
Pionsenay's one of the worst in that regard. He's Chokonen, you know, same as Cochise, but
he ignores Cochise's law and runs with the scamps under Juh. Cochise used to be strong enough to control
the hotheads to some extent. He went and
kicked Natiza right off the reservation for breaking his law some time
back. But, the old man's too sick right
now to clamp down on the likes of Pionsenay or Eskinya. Taza might be able to do it, but not until
he's chief. And you can't go around
accusing an Apache of being a renegade, not in front of his people. Not unless you want to fight a duel to the
death. They're a prideful people, Big
John. They take any slight personally,
and they never forget any wrong done to them.
Truth be told, though, most of them raids into
"How
can you say that?" John asked in surprise.
"Them
Mexicans down there been cheating and killin' Apache since the beginning,"
Jeffords spat in disgust. "Robbers,
murderers and cut-throats they are. It's
no wonder the Apache hate 'em. Lying,
pompous bunch them Mexicans are. They
deserve what they get, you ask me. The
more of 'em the Apache kill, the better off we'll all be."
John
came to a halt and faced Jeffords squarely, and his own face went hard. Jeffords quickly realized his mistake, and he
physically stepped back from John as he held his palms up defensively.
"Of
course, I'm generalizing, John. No
offense to you and your family, or that pretty wife of yours," Jeffords
said quickly. "You got to forgive
an old fool like me, John. I been out
here among these Apache for so long, well, I've gotten so I just shoot my mouth
off without thinking sometimes. If I
offended you with my words, I humbly apologize."
John
hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and stood silent, staring at Jeffords. He certainly had been offended by the other
man's words, for they had been unthinking and just plain hateful. Jeffords was apparently as biased toward
Mexicans as the people in
"I
have a hope the time will come where we can all learn to live in this land in
peace, Tom," he said at last.
"White, Mexican and Apache alike."
John
saw relief fill Jefford's eyes. Some men
would have called Jeffords out for such an insult, even drawn on him, for
offending families in such a way, but John was more rational than that. No real harm had been done, and they still
had a job to do together yet. He no
longer cared to discuss Jefford's view of Mexicans, however.
"Let's
go find this boy," he said at last, slapping Jeffords lightly on the
arm. "I'm curious to see where he
came from, and what happened to his family."
Together,
they turned in the darkness and walked into the wickiup in awkward silence.
II
Manolito Montoya scooped more beans from the pot over the
fire and sat back against the boulder that reflected the light and heat of the
fire, carefully averting his eyes so that the light would not affect his night
vision.
Buck had finally gotten most of the saguaro spines out of
his hide, and he was understandably sore, but that did not completely account
for the strange mood that had plagued his friend all day. Something else was eating his sister's
brother-in-law, and whatever it was, Manolito was concerned for him.
"You want some more frijoles?" Manolito asked,
but Buck shook his head and continued to stare into the fire. Buck sat opposite from Manolito, holding a
tin coffee cup across his knee as his eyes stared at something Manolito could
not see. Buck had made no effort to
protect his own night vision, and that was not like Buck. The younger Cannon was a wily hombre, one who
knew better. Many might have believed
that Indians did not attack at night, and while that was generally true of
Apache, it was not always true. Nor was
it true of many tribes. Manolito could
easily remember the Comanches of the Llano, who usually raided at night under
the light of a full moon. The truth was,
Indians raided whenever they felt like it, and Buck knew this as well as
anyone, yet he was being careless with his night vision, as if he did not care.
It was a strange Buck Cannon who sat staring into the fire
this night.
"You are thinking deeply tonight, eh?" Manolito
asked, in the way of offering a conversation.
"Yeah…I guess I am," Buck replied soberly, his
eyes never focusing.
"And what are you thinking of? Some ladies in
Buck blinked in surprise, as if he had just realized that
Manolito was speaking to him. He quickly
took a sip of coffee and scowled.
"I was tryin' to figure out where in the blazes that big ol'
longhorn come from," Buck replied.
That was not
what was eating at Buck, and Manolito knew it, but at least Buck was talking
now, and it was best to encourage him to continue. Otherwise, Buck would just clam up and be silent. Buck had a way of bottling something up
inside until it had to explode, usually with very dangerous consequences. Though Buck was usually acted light-hearted,
he possessed a deep soul, and it was best to keep him from brooding too much.
"I would suspect it came from
"
Manolito chewed on a mouthful of beans a moment, then
washed it down with scalding black coffee before replying.
"Si. About five years ago, there was a
cattleman from
"Drivin' longhorns all the way to
"This cattleman, his name was Eastwood, I
believe," Manolito continued.
"I have heard of him many times.
He was attacked by the Apache at Dragoon Springs, not far from
here. Cochise himself was said to have
led the raid."
"Ol' Cochise, huh?
What happened?"
"I can only relate what I was told, for I was in
"Yeah, that sounds like A-pach," Buck admitted
soberly.
"At any rate," Manolito continued without pause,
"one of the Tejanos was killed in the fight. The Apaches made three charges against the
Tejanos, and while no more of Eastwood's men were killed, the Apache did manage
to steal the entire herd, and drove them south toward
"Some of the Tejanos rode to
"Well, apparently not all of them, Mano," Buck exclaimed cynically.
"I think maybe you are right," Manolito said
with a grin. "This longhorn bull,
he could be a stray from that herd; one that has gone wild."
"Well, longhorns be a tough breed," Buck
agreed. "They's always pretty
stringy and wild, but they also prob'ly the best kind o'cattle drive across the
desert. That would account for a
longhorn bein' out here, all right. Five
years of bein' wild and free. Hoo, boy,
that was one big bull we locked horns with today, Mano."
Buck laughed, and Manolito was glad for it. It was good to see Buck laugh.
"Si, Amigo. He
was so tough that not even Cochise wanted to keep him."
Buck sobered a bit at Cochise's name, then looked into his
coffee cup for a few moments.
"Ol' Cochise, he been keepin' his word according to
Big John," Buck said. "Keepin' his people on the reservation there at
"He is a man of honor," Manolito said. "My father concluded that long
ago."
Manolito put his cup and plate down, then leaned back to
fold his arms behind his head as he gazed up at the spangle of stars in the
sky. He had always been impressed with
how beautiful the desert sky was at night, especially when far out away from a
town.
"Honor or not, it ain't stopped all the A-Patch from
raidin,'" Buck replied after a few moments of silence. "When I was in town drinkin' the other
night, I remember hearing a bunch o' them Fifth cavalry boys braggin' about
killing twenty or so A-pach up in the Sierra Anchas just last month."
"Yes," Manolito replied, his eyes
half-closed. "It is a hard land,
the desert. It breeds hard
creatures. There have been many Apache
raids into
"I kin certainly understand that," Buck said. "It ain't been safe for a white man to
ride out alone since we arrived here and took over the High Chaparral."
"It has not been safe for the people of
Buck pulled the pot from the fire and refilled his cup,
then sat back as he pulled his low-crowned hat low over his eyes and rested the
tin cup on his chest, letting it warm both hands. He tilted the cup and took a sip .
"I guess yo' family fought a bunch with the
A-pach?"
"Yes," Manolito replied.
"Well, tell me about it."
"It is nothing," Manolito replied. "I would not want to bore you."
"I wouldn't have asked if I was gonna be bored!"
Buck snapped back. "Now talk
up. It ain't like I be goin'
anywhere."
"It all started before I was born, when the Apache
first raided Fronteras," Manolito said.
"Our soldiers pursued them, but the Apache ambushed the
soldiers. Then they turned south to raid
Bacaoachi, and there attacked the hacienda of my father's cousin."
"Ol' Don Sebastian has a cousin?" Buck
exclaimed.
"Yes. His name
was Narivo. Narivo Montoya. The Apache killed him and everyone else at
the hacienda. It was this raid, in fact,
that caused my father to first fight the Apache, and to move to
Buck listened with interest, taking measured sips from his
coffee cup as it sat on his chest.
"That didn't have quite the desired effect the governor wanted, did
it?" Buck asked.
"No. My father
was outraged by the hanging, of course. As for the Apache…well, rather than
being taught a lesson, they immediately attacked everywhere in
"You ever have a fight with the A-patch when you was
in
"Yes, it was in the summer of 'sixty-five, almost ten
years ago. It was a very bad, that year,
along the border."
"It weren't too nice in
"No, I would imagine not," Manolito
replied. "As I said, I was only a
younger and more inexperienced man."
His eyes darkened as he recalled the scenes. "I was riding with some soldiers from
Bivispe. There were seventeen of
us. We were going to meet a wagon train
from Janos and escort it to safety. We
did not know it at the time, but Cochise's men had already wiped out the
previous day's patrol. The wagon train,
too, had already been destroyed. Eleven
men, including the leader of the train, were dead. The Apache had ambushed them at
Lagartos. Two women and two children had
been taken captive, but we did not know this.
When the patrol I was with found the corpses, we were already in the
center of Arroyo Higueros. That was when
we were attacked as well."
Manolito's eyes unfocused as he sat telling Buck the tale
quietly, as in his mind he relived those horrible events once again.
III
The sun was bright as Manolito rode beside Elian Aguirre,
a childhood friend who had recently joined the Army garrison at Bavispe. Manolito had, only a few weeks earlier,
ridden from his father's hacienda in anger.
The "Lion of Sonora" had been a bit too insistent that his son
take a leadership role on Rancho Montoya, and it had not been a role that
Manolito had been willing to take.
Why, he had reasoned, should he take on such a level of
responsibility? Ranching was his
father's dream, not his. Owning a huge
cattle empire in a desert held little appeal for Manolito. Instead, he was happier to be with the
vaqueros, the working men. They were men
who had little, but they were the salt of the earth. Among them he had been happy. Among them he had found friends. And among
them, he could cut up and work as an equal, rather than as a rich man's
son. That would not have been true if he
had adopted his father's outlook, of becoming a lord over his men. That would have separated him from his
friends, something Manolito could not abide.
Besides, there were so many other attractions to hold the attentions of
a young man. He could ride away to the
northeast and travel with a few of his more notorious acquaintances as they
traded goods with the violent and stormy Comanche. Living that way was truly dangerous and
exciting, for the Comanche were fierce warriors and magnificent horsemen,
dangerous enough that they had driven even the Apache out of
It had been dangerous, to be sure, and his occasional
month or two away with those men had quickly earned his father's definite
disapproval, but the life had also been exhilarating. He had seen much of the border, and of
It was not that Manolito could not lead men. It was more that he did not like to do
it. Leading them meant being responsible
for them, and he was not content with that responsibility. Such obligations kept him from enjoying
life. Far better to saddle a horse and
ride, as free as the wind, to move across the land like the wandering
tumbleweed, than to stay in one place and grow old and dull with
responsibilities. Life was too short for
that.
His father had definitely not appreciated his
attitude. Don Sebastian was a self-man
man, and he could be stubborn, stern, and demanding. Don Sebastian had told Manolito that he would
have to take his place on Rancho Montoya as a leader or be cut off from his
father's good graces.
It had not been an
ultimatum that Manolito could live with and retain his dignity. He had quickly
saddled up and ridden away with what he could carry on a horse. After a few days of pointless riding, he had
at last decided to go and see his childhood friend, Elian.
They had enjoyed themselves well in Bavispe, drinking
tequila and telling tales of their childhood, yelling and laughing with the
poor soldiers who were Elian's meager companions. In a short while, all of them were friends,
and soon they asked Manolito to accompany them on an escort patrol. Due
east of Bavispe, their route had taken them over the northern tip of the great
Sierra Madre, and into the endless series of hills and arroyos of that marred
that land.
The patrol's leader was Sergeant Juan Serrano. He had not been much inclined to have a
civilian tag along with his squad in the field, but Elian had convinced the
sergeant otherwise. He had told him that
Manolito was considering enlisting in the army, and it could do no harm to let
him experience a little army life before deciding. Just to see if he had what it took to be a
good soldier, of course. Serrano, who
had no intention of suffering a shirker, was, however, anxious to be on his
way, and had reluctantly agreed. It was
only a short patrol, after all, and trouble was not expected.
They had left at dawn and proceeded along a broken trail
that followed the canyons to Carretas, seventeen miles from Bavispe, just short
of the border with
"It can be a hard life," Elian admitted, as they
rode along in the dust behind by the fifteen soldiers ahead of them. "You must always be up at the crack of
dawn and ready to go, and you must follow the orders of the sergeants and
officers, even the ones who are fools.
You must keep your uniform clean and within regulations. It is nothing like the rich life that a
Montoya would be used to, but it is simple enough, and I think you would like
it, my friend."
Manolito smiled to himself, his huge dimples creasing his
face, but he kept his thoughts to
himself as Elian talked. Manolito had no
intention of joining the Army, not today or any other. That was certainly no way to avoid increased
responsibility. It required far too much
discipline. The story had only been a
simple ruse to spend a little more time with his friend before he rode off to
visit greener pastures. Elian, however,
had seemed to have forgotten that fact.
Serrano called a halt at
The point rider came riding back furiously, and spoke to
Serrano, who quickly waved his arm in a motion for the patrol to gallop
forward. The squad rode forward quickly,
rounding a bend before halting in a cloud of dust. Manolito, choking on the dust and unsure just
what was happening, spurred his mount to keep up.
Ten bloated corpses lay in the dust of the canyon. All had been stripped of their clothes,
scalped, and mutilated. Flies festooned
the bodies, giving them the appearance of peppered meat, and a few of the
soldiers in the lead of the patrol leaned from their horses to retch as the
awful smell hit them. Manolito reigned
in, careful to stay upwind from the smell.
He had seen enough dead men in his life and had no wish to approach too
closely. He watched as Serrano
dismounted to study the scene. Elian
came riding back.
"It is the patrol that was sent out yesterday,"
Elian said with great concern.
"They have been killed. It
looks like the Apache ambushed them."
Manolito nodded.
That made sense, but he was content to watch the scene from a
distance. Elian quickly checked his
rifle as Manolito leaned on his saddle horn.
The creak of leather was loud in the hot desert air.
"Come on, Manolito, we will go, track the Apache, and
avenge these poor men."
"I will remain here for now, thank you,"
Manolito replied, staring at the buzzards circling far overhead.
Elian laughed harshly.
"Oh? I did not
know you were a squeamish one, my friend."
Manolito shrugged, then indicated the grisly scene before
them with his chin. Most of the soldiers
had dismounted, trying to identify the bodies of friends that they knew.
"Do you not notice something strange?" Manolito
asked after several minutes.
Elian turned to study the scene.
"What?" he said.
"I see only soldiers looking at dead men. Ten dead men to be exact. Men, who only yesterday my friends; my fellow
soldiers. Ah, I see. There are only ten bodies, and eleven men
went out. That means that one of the men
has escaped or has been taken for torture."
"A good observation, but that is not what I
meant," Manolito replied.
"What else is there?" Elian asked, and Manolito
pointed skyward.
"Where are the vultures?"
"They are up in the sky," Elian had replied,
surprised that Manolito could not see the obvious. Manolito looked into his eyes then.
"If these men have been dead since yesterday, then
why are the vultures so high in the sky?" he asked pointedly. "They were high when we first spotted
them. Why are they not on the ground,
among the dead, feeding?"
Elian made a sour face, as if the thought appalled him,
and he tried to come up with a plausible answer. "Perhaps they were scared off by our
approach."
"No, Elian. We
have seen none that have taken flight.
All we have seen are those above, circling as if afraid to land. Afraid to land long before we arrived
here. For them to be afraid to land,
there must be a reason."
Elian's eyes had widened in sudden understanding.
"Maldecir! I had not thought of that! You are quite right,
Manolito."
"Perhaps you should warn the Sergeant," Manolito
said. "To be on his guard. I think it would be best if we were to remain
especially vigilant right now. The
Apache are close by."
"I think maybe you are right," Elian replied,
and he turned his horse and spurred it, rushing ahead to hail the
sergeant. As he rode away, Elian turned
in the saddle and grinned at Manolito, as if he had just won a point in a game. "You see, Mano?" he exclaimed as he
galloped off, "you are a natural born soldier! With your instincts, you will be a sergeant
in no time."
Manolito grinned and shook his head, watching silently as
his friend rode quickly up to Serrano.
Serrano stood to talk to him, then suddenly threw both
arms straight up into the air and pitched backwards into the dust. Cotton ball puffs of white smoke erupted in
the rocks along the canyon rim, and then the unmistakable crack of rifle fire
blasted over the canyon, causing Manolito to jerk in surprise. Men tumbled and staggered as volley upon
volley of rifle fire tore into their midst.
He saw six soldiers fall with the first shots, the rest
turning to run as they madly scrambled for cover. The fierce cry of the Apache war yells echoed
across the canyon, echoing weirdly.
Manolito pulled his pistol, a big .44 caliber U.S. Army
1858 Remington. He had paid a lot of
money for that pistol a year earlier, to a Tejano who claimed to have taken it
off a dead Union officer at
Manolito spurred his horse into a gallop to meet the
Apaches who were now charging after the soldiers, running in zigzags as they
chasing Serrano's men, who had forgotten fighting as they dashed for the cover
of the nearby arroyo.
A second volley of gunfire erupted from the arroyo itself,
just as Serrano's men reached it, and Manolito cursed at how well the Apache
had lain their ambush. More men fell as
Apache bullets and arrows tore into them, and Elian turned to run, his face
white with fear. Events began to move as
if in slow motion, and Manolito saw everything with extreme clarity.
Elian spurred his horse, his uniform brilliant white and
blue as he fled the Apache, the neck cloth of his hat fluttering wildly in the
wind. Sunlight flashed from the hat's
polished visor as arrows and bullets tore the air around Elian. A half-naked warrior, wearing only boots and
loincloth, suddenly rose from a patch of brush in front of Elian's horse. The Apache was painted and carried a huge
lance, and wore a blue bandanna wrapped about his head. Elian struggled to bring his rifle up, but
the Apache had timed his attack too carefully.
The two foot long steel blade of his lance skewered Elian as he rode
past the Apache, knocking him from his horse and into the sand, and Mano
screamed his fury even as he galloped down upon the lone warrior.
The warrior turned, his eyes widening in surprise, for
until now all of the Mexicans he had seen were running away. His expression changed to stunned realization
that one of the Mexicans was loco, and actually charging into his attackers.
Manolito's thumb
cocked the hammer of the Remington as he rode the warrior down. He was close enough that aiming was needless,
and he brought the pistol up and squeezed the trigger. The Remington bucked in his hand and the
Apache stumbled and fell in the dust, a hole appearing in his chest as the .44
caliber ball punched through him.
Manolito reigned about and brought the pistol up to aim at
a second Apache, who was squatting as he nocked an arrow on his short bow. They each fired at the same instant, and the
Chiricahua's arrow cut the pants on Manolito's thigh as it passed. Manolito's
bullet smacked the Apache in the head and knocked him back into a clump of
ocotillo.
A third Apache rose from behind a boulder and rushed
forward with a floppy-headed warclub, and Manolito stood in his stirrups as he
aimed and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The Remington's recoil had knocked most of the remaining
percussion caps from the nipples of the pistol's cylinders, and the weapon
would not fire. It was a definite
problem with cap-and-ball revolvers.
There was nothing he could do for it.
The Remington was a muzzle loader, and he simply did not have time to
reload.
The Apache dispatched Elian with a wicked blow to the
skull, then came toward Manolito in a rush.
Apache warriors began appearing from everywhere, secure in
their victory, as they rushed forward to loot and scalp the dead.
There was nothing he could do for his friend, and Manolito
wanted nothing more in his life at that moment than to jump the Apache who had
killed him and slice him from stem to stern with a knife. Staying to fight,
however, would only ensure his own death.
He was alone, outnumbered, and now unarmed.
Spurring his horse, he turned and galloped away as fast as
his horse could run as arrows and bullets rent the air around him.
IV
"There was nothing I could do," Manolito
concluded. "My friend was dead and
we had been successfully ambushed. To
stay would have been to die, yet I very much wanted to stay. I had known Elian since I was a boy. We had played in the dirt together. But he was gone, and there was nothing I
could do that would make him live again."
"Weren't no point in dyin' yo'self," Buck
agreed. "You was lucky to get out
with yo' hair."
"The Apaches killed thirteen of us that day. The rest of us fled to Janos. The Army later sent out another patrol to
punish the Apache, but they had already crossed the border back into the
"And yo' soldiers couldn't chase 'em no more."
"No," Manolito admitted. "Our soldiers were not permitted to
enter your
Buck rubbed a hand along the side of his face before
replying. "Wasn't much you could've
done, Mano," he said. "Them
A-pach done kilt most of them soldiers, includin' yo' friend. Weren't no sense in stayin' to fight. Man's gotta know when to fight and when to
light a shuck. Once yo' gun jammed,
well, it would've been plain loco to fight.
You had to skedaddle. Nothin' to
be ashamed of in that. You was just
smart."
"Perhaps so," Manolito conceded, but his eyes
were distant as he relived the memories in the dying firelight. "My head tells me much the same as you,
but my heart…well, sometimes it does not agree."
Buck sat up and reached over to the coffee pot, refilling
his tin cup with steaming liquid. He
took a sip, and leaned back against the boulder, staring into the fire.
"I know what you mean, amigo," he said
softly. "I surely do. Been in a few predicaments like that myself,
a time or two. Sometimes a man's
thoughts can get to be-devilin' him so much he cain't sleep. Ain't no point dwellin' on it, though. What's done.…well, it's done, an' that's all
there is to it."
Manolito rolled to one side and stared at Buck intently,
long enough that Buck glanced over at him.
"I do not think that I am the only one who has been
dwelling on his past this night," Manolito told him.
"No, I reckon not," Buck admitted, rubbing the
back of his neck with one hand. "I
got a few devils of my own eatin' at my backside, that be fo' sure. I just hope old Big John's havin' as tough a
time sleepin' tonight as I am."
Manolito chuckled silently, then pulled his hat over his
eyes and lay back to sleep. Buck sipped
his coffee and stared at the billions of stars in the sky. There was no sky like the desert sky far from
the towns. It was a wild and lonely
place, and Buck felt right at home, for he was a wild and lonely man. He and the desert were alike, he thought
calmly, and it was somehow comforting in a strange sort of way.
His eyes drifted back to the fire. It had burned down to mere coals now, casting
little light. He had built it carefully,
using dry wood and boulders to conceal it from hostile eyes. Now that it was down, he could sleep, but
Buck decided he would sit up a spell and think a bit more. He tossed a few sticks on the coals and a
flame blazed up briefly.
Buck scowled as he watched a bark scorpion, drawn by the
sudden illumination, walk straight across the campsite and into the fire. It died with a hiss, curling up as it burned,
and Buck suddenly shivered as the brief flame went out and darkness returned.
Sometimes he felt like that scorpion, drawn irresistibly
toward a flame that would eventually consume him in the end. It was only a matter of time. He took another drink of the coffee and
wondered if Big John spent as much time thinking about him, as he did thinking
about Big John.
Somehow, he surely doubted it.
V
WICKIUP, APACHE
CAMP,
It
had been another traumatic day for Mark McCain, only another in a seemingly
endless series of such days. He could
not stop thinking about his pa, and he knew that a hole had been ripped in his
own heart; a chasm that would never fill, much as it had never filled after the
loss of his ma.
Mark
had found ways of coping, however, by living in his memories. He sat now, in the dark corner of the
wickiup, illuminated only by weak orange glow of the fire, trying to recall a
poem his father had once taught him. It was a very famous poem, about a battle
during the War Between the States.
Remembering the poem helped calm his fears and center his life. His pa had spent many nights by the hearth
teaching him that poem, and it was somehow comforting to Mark that he could
remember the stanzas. It was as if, in
some strange way, his pa was not dead as long as he could keep the verses alive
in his mind.
Taza
entered the wickiup where Mark was sitting with Coyani's family and gestured to
Coyani with a sudden motion. The members
of Coyani's family were each busy doing something, sewing, working, or cooking.
Mark did not even look up when Taza walked in, but after a brief exchange of
subdued words in Apache, Coyani had stood and moved closer to join in the
discussion. Not thinking much about it,
as Apaches came and went all the time, Mark went back to reciting the poem in
his mind.
Up from the South
at the break of day,
Bringing to
The
affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door.
And
Mark smiled as he remembered how General Sheridan
had once visited him and his father on their ranch in
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.
Mark thought about the old Confederate, Frank Blandon, and
smiled. He remembered how Blandon had
walked up to the house one day as Mark was washing clothes and asked for a
drink of water. Blandon had been holding
his crippled left arm up, mangled from a war wound from years before. Thin, stoop-shouldered, and dirt-poor,
Blandon still had still been wearing an faded old Confederate slouch hat. His pa had offered him a cup of coffee, and
Blandon had accepted, then asked for a job.
His pa had declined, however, telling Blandon they were too poor
themselves to hire on hands. As Blandon
had walked away from the cabin, Mark had breathed a sign of relief and said,
"I'm sure glad you didn't hire him,
"Why,
son?" Lucas had asked, staring after Blandon.
"He
makes me shiver, he's so ugly," Mark had told him honestly. "And that arm of his…"
His
pa had suddenly stood and started out the back door of the house.
"Where
are you going?" Mark had called out.
"To
try to hire the both of us a clear conscience," Lucas had replied.
"No,
Pa!" Mark had burst in fear.
"I can't stand to look at him!"
"Neither
can I, son," Lucas had replied soberly.
"Which means we're both in worse shape than he is."
His
pa had hired old man Blandon right then and there, and put him up in the
barn. The next day, as Mark had sat on
his horse watching Blandon plow a field, his pa had chastised him for not
helping the old crippled man. Mark had
replied he had no intention of helping because there was a nest of yellowjackets right by where Blandon was plowing.
His
pa had been angry at him for not warning Blandon about the wasps. At that moment, the yellowjackets had
attacked, stinging Blandon so severely that he had thrown down the reins of the
plow horse and ran. His pa had been
forced to tackle Blandon to help him, but the old cripple had several
yellowjackets caught in his shirt, stinging him, so his pa had ripped the shirt
right off him. The sight of Blandon's
sick, putrid shoulder wound, complete with exposed bone, had brought his pa up
short. The sight had terrified Mark and
he had wanted to throw up. Instead, he
had spurred his horse and raced away, leaping out of the saddle under a nearby
oak tree near the creek, quaking with the dry heaves. His pa had sent Blandon into the house for a
new shirt before he had walked over to where Mark lay under the tree, gasping
for breath.
"I'm
sorry, son," his pa had said, hugging him.
"But sooner or later you had to find out."
"Why
did I, Pa? I didn't want to."
"Not
only poor Blandon's shoulder," his pa had explained gently. "I mean about all the ugly, useless
suffering in the world. In time, you'll
learn to accept it and bring it into balance with the good things."
"I'll
never be able to, Pa," Mark had replied, still shuddering.
"You
will, son, because you have to," his pa had told him. "It's the price you pay for staying
alive and in your right senses. It's
manhood. And I can promise you that when
you come to the far end of it, you'll raise your old hands to bless this
wonderful life you've been given. Taken
together with the roast beef, the moonrises, and a boy and his father riding
out in the morning. After you've grown
up to be a father yourself."
His
pa had been like that. Tough and strong,
yet always caring; always taking the time to explain things to a young
boy. Always providing Mark a new way to
look at things.
His
pa had finally come to the far end of it himself, thanks to that murdering Sod
Chambers. For Mark, living with the
Apache now, there would be no more roast beef, and while they might still be
moonrises, he would never again ride out with his father in the morning.
The heartache began to return, and Mark
decided he had best concentrate on the next verse of the poem.
But there is a
road from Winchester town,
A
good, broad highway, leading down;
And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with utm
Hills rose and fell – but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Mark smiled quietly as the third verse reminded him of
General Phil Sheridan's arrival at the house that day. The general had been riding a huge white
horse, not the famous black steed of the poem, but he had still been a
magnificent sight. The military governor
of the Southwest,
His
pa had remembered
That
evening, as
"Private
McCain," he had growled at Mark through a cloud of cigar smoke, "you
are dismissed!"
Crestfallen,
Mark had hurried to his pa's side, but
"
Still spring from
those swift hoofs, thundering South,
The
dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;
Or
the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating, like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With
It had been at precisely that instant that old Blandon had
appeared out of the barn behind General Sheridan. Blandon had, for the first time, revealed the
iron in his soul as he walked up behind where
"Howdy,
Gen'ral," Blandon had said amiably, shuffling closer. "Nice to see you again."
"We've
met?"
"Once
afore," Blandon told him, and
"Where?"
"
"I
was there,"
"Why,
you bluecoats broke ranks to advance again' orders," Blandon had told him
with a laugh. "And you came up in
the rocks in the first scramble of 'em.
Both sides could hear you holler over the top of the guns."
"What'd
I have in my right hand?"
"A
big pistol gun," Blandon told him.
"And
in the other?"
Blandon
had smiled and nodded at the whiskey flask.
"Same
as now."
One
of the staff officers laughed then, saying, "He was there."
"What
regiment?"
"Eleventh
"But
you never waited, though, not for a sweep second," Blandon continued in
admiration. "You glimpsed me, an'
right then you blowed out my shoulder. But…well…here I is."
"Maybe
so,"
"I
remembered fer ye, Sheridan" Blandon had replied with a smile. "I was a real light-steppin' boy back
then…'course, I aged about two fer one since."
"Johnny,
I'm sorry for it,"
"I
didn't ask ye to be sorry," Blandon had replied, and he had pulled a
derringer from his shirt and pointed it at
"That
was war, Johnny,"
Blandon
had replied by cocking the hammer on the derringer. "When they bury us
both tomorrow, Gen'ral, you ain't gonna have no face. You're a big, windy man, high an' mighty. Well, say something now! Whatever it is, it's gonna be your last
talkin' between here and purgatory."
Under his
spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind,
Like an ocean flying before the wind,
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire;
But, lo! He is nearing his heart's
desire,
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With
Mark
could still see the way his pa had slowly angled toward his rifle, which was
propped against one of the porch support beams, but
"At
ease, McCain."
Reluctantly,
his pa had complied, and
"Gentlemen,
I'll handle this myself, and that's official,"
"To
see you sweat, like I sweat!" Blandon had yelled back.
"Me?"
"Every
day of my life I do sums in my head, Johnny.
Casualty totals from every battle order I ever issued. Do you expect me to be afraid of what might
come out of that little hole?"
"I've
done my gravy-licking, Johnny Reb,"
Blandon
had become spitting mad at
"You're
right up your nose!" Blandon had shouted, and he had started to lose
control. "Why ain't you fightin'
now, Fightin' Phil?"
"What
would you know about a fight, you sniveling, weak-kneed yokel?"
"You
just keep talkin,' Gen'ral! You're
makin' it easy for me! You're makin' it
real easy!"
"Sure,
easy for you,"
"You're
a Yankee liar!"
"Am
I?"
"That's
a Yankee lie!" Blandon had shouted.
"What
other Johnny Reb ever had Phil Sheridan in his sights and flinched the shot
that might have tipped the whole balance of the war in the favor of the
Confederacy?"
The
words had struck old Blandon as effectively as if
The first that
the General saw were the groups
Of
stragglers, and the retreating troops.
He
dashed down the line mid a stream of huzzas,
"I
have brought you
From
Mark recited the lines mentally, clinging desperately now
to the memories as he sat in the darkness of the Apache wickiup. His pa was gone now, but he wanted to
remember, to savor the memories and hold them like precious diamonds in his hands.
He
remembered how
"I…
I don't know," Blandon had said, his shoulders sagging under an invisible
weight. "I don't think clear no
more. It's true, like he say. I shamed my kin. I ain't nothin' to nobody."
Blandon
had broken down the in utter humiliation, and then
"I
spoke too hasty,"
"Don't
come near me, Gen'ral," Blandon had said, still quaking with shame. "I ain't worth nothin.'"
"Son,
I know of an old, white-headed college professor name of Robert E. Lee who'd be
almighty proud to shake your hand."
"General
Lee," Blandon had sniffled, still not looking up. "General Lee and all them light-steppin'
boys what fought and died fer him."
"Died,
Johnny?"
Blandon
had looked up at that, and even smiled a little, struggling to reclaim enough
pride to look
"We
was fightin' boys," Blandon had admitted.
"Four
mortal years!"
Blandon
had finally looked up at the praise, and had grinned weakly at
"If'n
we'd of had a couple more corn cobs, we'd have whipped ya," he had said.
"Johnny,"
he had replied grandly, "I almost believe you would."
Then
Sheridan had appointed one of the officers, his own private surgeon, to take a
look at Blandon's shoulder. The doctor
had been appalled by the condition of the wound, and
"I'm
carrying out the last orders of my wartime commander-in-chief,"
Hurrah, hurrah
for
Hurrah, hurrah for the horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,-
The American soldier's Temple of Fame,-
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here
is the steed that saved the day
By
carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester, - twenty miles away!"
Mark smiled with the memory, holding it dearly and warmly
to his breast. Those had been such
special days, back when he had a life.
Back when everything had a good ending.
Back before he and his pa had come to
There
would be no more roast beef for him.
Only bitter moonrises now. And
never again would he ride out again in the beauty of the morning, just him and
his pa, against the world, the way it was supposed to be.
The
thoughts made something ball up in Mark and take pity on himself. He had lost so much, and it just wasn't
fair! What had he done to deserve
this? He wanted to go home…but there was
no home. How could he ever face that
lonely cabin in
Mark's
self-pity was interrupted as a bitter exchange of words occurred abruptly
between Taza and Coyani.
Coyani
was staring at Taza with anger on his face.
Coyani's mother said something to the youth gently, but Coyani ignored
her, glaring at Taza with impotent rage, then stormed out of the wickiup. Taza remained impassive, and motioned toward
the door with his hand.
Two
white men stepped through the entrance.
One was an older man, stoop-shouldered, with a scraggly white beard and
kindly eyes. The other man was huge, as
tall as his father had been, with silver sideburns at his temples and blue
eyes. The man towered over the older
one, and though his face was tough and craggy, his eyes were kind. There was a tender concern in them as he
looked from the Apaches to Mark.
"Hello,
boy," the tall man said in a deep voice.
"I've come to take you home."
With
a burst of exploding joy, Mark McCain leapt across the wickiup into the big
man's arms and held on tightly. Then,
for the first time in days, he burst into tears.
Caught off guard, John Cannon held the
violently sobbing boy and let him cry for all he was worth.
VI
APACHE CAMP,
Sam
Butler grimaced as he looked around. He
was not comfortable being inside the Apache camp, and the eyes of the Apaches,
while not outwardly hostile, were not exactly friendly, either. He had ridden into the camp just after
sunrise, after Tom Jeffords had come out to meet him on the northern range to
guided him to the camp. Sam had been
riding since well before dawn, and he was too tuckered out to get into a fight
with Apaches, so he had ridden very carefully.
He
and his boss had taken breakfast with the Chiricahua, an experience that was
unique in Sam Butler's memory. Apaches
were accustomed to survival under harsh conditions, and Sam had known they
would eat about anything they could catch.
That included everything from deer to Army mules, and included even
kangaroo rats. The morning meal had been
pretty subdued, however, consisting only of roasted peccary meat, red cactus
fruit, and some kind of Mexican melon. A
kind of somber quiet had fallen over the camp as they had eaten, oppressive
even to a white man like Sam. The
Apaches had eaten in silence, their surly mood quite apparent. It was more than enough to make Sam wish he
were somewhere else as he checked the cinch on his saddle.
"They're
as touchy as a scorched sidewinder, boss," Sam told John Cannon as he
pulled the cinch a little tighter.
"You be careful."
"We'll
be fine, Sam. Tom Jeffords knows these
people well, and they won't harm us with him around," John replied. "Just get back and keep the men working
on the herd. Send Blue home as soon as
you get there. I'll take this boy to the
ranch and then ride back out to help you and the men finish up. Then we all need to get back home. There's likely to be a lot of trouble in the
near future, and we'll need to protect the home front."
"The
boy looks pretty good for having been a prisoner of the Apache," Sam said,
nodding toward where Mark McCain sat talking quietly to the tall youth named
Coyani.
"Apparently,
he impressed some of them," John replied.
"They were actually considering adopting him."
"Good
thing we got here before they did, boss.
People in
"That's
just what Jeffords said," John agreed, tightening his gloves. "Everyone's agreed it's best to get the
boy back to his own folks."
"Maybe
not everyone," Sam said, and he nodded toward Coyani.
"I
think that young warrior was his only friend in camp, Sam." John squinted into the late morning sunlight
and watched the two boys interact. For
some reason, it made him think on childhood memories, memories of his
brother. "It was that warrior's
family who was considering the adoption."
"Good
think Jeffords came to get you, Mr. Cannon.
Once these Apaches had that boy adopted proper, well, we'd have had a
hard time ever getting him back. It
would have been hard for them to let go of one of their own. Seems like it's
already hard…at least for one of them."
John
looked at Coyani a long moment and nodded in agreement.
"Yes,
Sam, there's definitely something brotherly between those two," John
said. "That's what I'm trying to
help establish out here. Take a look at
them. One's a savage Chiricahua warrior,
the other a young white boy. That's what
you get when people communicate without hatred.
Two boys who haven't learned to hate each other yet. If all the adults in this territory could get
along half as well as those two, we could bring peace to the whole region."
"No
offense, Mr. Cannon, but that ain't likely to happen," Sam replied,
lowering the stirrup from where he had draped it over the saddle. "Too much water under the bridge for
that. Most of it bloody. The hatred's too deeply ingrained to erase,
but I know what you mean. That's one
reason I'm right proud to work for the High Chaparral. You're more than just a boss. You got vision; you see some things clearer
than most men. You make a big difference
out here."
"I'll
take that as a compliment, Sam," John replied softly, "But I wonder,
sometimes, Sam. I really do. Can one man really make a difference?"
"He
can if he's Big John Cannon," Sam replied, and he stepped into the stirrup
and mounted. "Well, I'd best be
getting back to the herd." Sam
leaned forward and extended a hand to John.
"When the cat's away…"
"Thank
you for bringing the spare horse in for me, Sam."
"Got
to admit I had my doubts about riding into an Apache camp all by my
lonesome," Sam admitted with a grin.
"I surely did, but when the boss says come, well, a man best do as
he says."
"No
hesitation, Sam?"
"Now,
I didn't say that, Boss. I still like the idea of hanging onto my
hair. On the other hand, I ride for the
brand. If you take the job, you do the
work. Even if it means riding into an
Indian camp alone and bringing along a spare horse."
"Thanks
again, Sam. I'm going to take the boy to
the ranch and drop him off with
"Oh? More of those renegades we keep hearing
about?"
"Yes,
but more than that. There are
gun-runners out here somewhere. White
men, trading rifles to the Apache.
They're dangerous, and you'll need to keep a sharp eye out for
them. If you cut their trail, let me
know. Be careful until you're back with
the men, and be suspicious of any groups of white men you see, especially if
you don't know them. These men are
cold-blooded killers."
Sam
shook his head in disgust.
"Just
what we need. Them sort need a neck-tie
party real bad."
"I
intend to notify the Army as soon as I can, Sam," John told him. "These men will be wanted for
murder. They shot the boy's father down
in cold blood, then gave him to the Apaches to torture. On top of that, those rifles they sold will
bring death all along the border. You
just be careful."
"Be
careful yourself, Boss. This is still a
camp full of Chiricahua. With the kinds
of doin's going on around here, it ain't safer for anybody, red or white."
Sam
lifted his reins and started to turn the horse to ride, but a sudden bone-chilling
howl brought him up short. The horse
bucked in surprise, but Sam expertly controlled him, spinning him in a tight
circle. He brought the dun to a halt and
looked at John in surprise.
All
around the camp, the Chiricahua had stopped what they were doing, and as one,
they were wailing and howling, pulling at their hair and crying out in
Apache. The howling was pitiful and
frightening in its intensity, and John watched as Coyani stood and faced toward
a certain wickiup, threw his own head back and added his voice to the dreadful
roar. Slowly, the Indian youth sank to
his knees and continued to wail.
"What
in the blazes is this all about?" Sam stammered, struggling to control his
mount. "They all gone nuts?"
John
sighed deeply and took off his hat.
"No,"
he said. "Not at all. I'd say we've just entered a new era, Sam."
"New
era? What do you mean by that?"
"I'd
say Cochise has just died," John told him, and Sam's expression was
surprised as he let his eyes drift from John Cannon's face to the wickiup at
the center of the camp.
The
Apaches continued their dreadful wail without respite.
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