A Small Problem

APACHE CAMP, DRAGOON MOUNTAINS, 6 JUNE 1874

 

"This is the land of Chiricahua," Coyani explained, drawing a map in the sand with a stick.  "Chokonens here, in center.  Chihennes, Red Paint people, they here, in direction of rising sun, near Mescalero.  Nednhis, under Juh, they south, in Mexico."

Mark McCain studied the crudely drawn dirt map half-heartedly.  Coyani had shown him much kindness since arriving as a prisoner in Taza's camp, but Mark had little interest in the Apache's lessons.  With his pa gone, he simply did not care about much of anything at all.  He felt numbed, his entire universe shattered, and it had been done not by bloodthirsty Indians, but by a single evil white man.

"You listen?" Coyani said, interrupting his thoughts.  Mark blinked, caught off guard in his private reverie.

"Huh?"

Coyani paused, staring at Mark a long moment, the squatted in the sand next to him.

"Where you mind?"

"What do you mean?" Mark replied.

"You thoughts not here," Coyani said as he sought the correct words.  "You think much deep, but not on story of Chiricahua.  Where you think?"

"I'm thinking of Pa."

"What is 'pa'?"

"My father."

"Ah."

Coyani was silent a few moments, doodling with his stick in the soft sand.  At last, he sighed deeply, then spoke without meeting Mark's eyes.

"It good you think of father," he said.  "Him brave man, not afraid of white eyes or Apache.  You good son to think of father.  Have much right for be proud.  But father dead.  Nothing bring father back.  In Apache way, name of dead not spoken.  Bring many bad gans, bad spirits.  Best to think about now; about Apache way."

"I can't help it," Mark snapped back, his eyes too dry to leak tears.  "He was my pa!  And those lying killers murdered him!  And you just left him out there!"

Coyani pouted a moment, considering the boy's angry tone, then shrugged.

"Shooting bring soldiers.  It way of Tinneh to always move after shoot.  That way, enemies never sure where Tinneh at."

"What's a Tinneh?"

"We Tinneh," Coyani said firmly.  "All tribes here. Chiricahua, Mescalero, Jicarilla, Coyotero, Lipan.  We all Tinneh.  Mean 'people' in white eye language.  All others not people."

"I thought you were called Apaches," Mark blurted out defensively.

Coyani nodded and met his eyes.

"That Zuni word.  Zuni word for enemy is apachu.  Tinneh long enemy of Zunis, long enemy of Pima and Papago.  Outside people borrow Zuni word, call us 'Apache.'  We call selves Tinneh.  But Apache name good.  Much honor in being good enemy.  We strong enemy for anyone."

Mark's eyes narrowed angrily.

"Why do you want to be people's enemies?" he yelled.  "Why can't you just be their friends?"

Coyani considered that for several moments, pausing as he reviewed a question he had long asked himself.  "Old story," he said at last.  "Mexicans come, long ago, and Tinneh friends to them.  Them old time Mexicans, men with hairy faces and iron hats.  Them kill Indians in Mexico, soon kill Tinneh, too.  Tinneh then go to war with old-time Mexicans, kill many back.  Soon, old time Mexicans tired of fighting, want peace.  In time of Coyani's great grandfather, old-time Mexicans make peace, give Tinneh many presents and food.  In time of Coyani's grandfather, old-time Mexicans fight with their children, new-time Mexicans.  New-time Mexicans win fight, and old-time Mexicans go away.  We never see old time Mexicans again.  Then new-time Mexicans try cheat Tinneh, try to kill Tinneh.  No more give presents.  No more give food.  Tinneh begin starve, have to go back to old ways.  Have war with new-time Mexicans.  New-time Mexicans not give Tinneh food, then we must take."

"So why are you fighting us if it’s the Mexicans you are at war with?"

"When first white eyes come, they good to Tinneh," Coyani answered honestly.  "Them hunters, look for cha'a, small river animals with flat tails.  Them wild white eyes, much hairy, much wild, like land.  Them live well with Tinneh, adopt Apache way, adopt Ute way.  Then, one day, they side with Mexicans.  Help Mexicans fight Tinneh.  Their hearts go bad toward Apache.  Soon more white eyes come, this time they hunt yellow rocks.  They look for gold and dig in ground in Apache land.  Them not ask Tinneh permission. Them not friendly to Apache.  Easy for Apache to kill, so Apache kill many.  Soon soldiers come, protect rock hunters.  Chiricahua chiefs, they make big war on soldiers.  Then Army Chief Bascom make big war on Apache.  He try trap Cochise, make Cochise prisoner, but Cochise escape.  I young warrior then, but I remember.  Big war follow, many die.  Soon even Cochise tired of war, make peace.  But war is Tinneh way.  Always have enemies.  Must be strong.  If Tinneh not grow food, then must go and take food.  Take guns, take what need to live.  Much easier to kill Mexicans than grow food in desert.  Cochise try make peace, but hard to change Tinneh way.  Tinneh remember that Mexicans lie; that white eyes not to be trusted.  Their words no good."

Mark sniffed and dragged a corduroy sleeve across his nose.  Despite his inner pain and numbness, he found the subject mildly interesting.  The thought made him feel a little better, but then he was angry with himself for it.  How dare he feel good when his father was dead?

"So, what's a dikohe?" he asked, remembering the term Taza had used the night before.  It infuriated him that he was interacting with this Apache, but the young warrior appeared to be the only friend he had in camp.  Mark couldn't cry anymore; there were no tears left.

"Dikohe is young warrior," Coyani explained patiently.  "Young Apache brave learn be warrior, first make dikohe.  Take many tests, learn many lessons.  Need be brave to be dikohe.  Taza think maybe you make good dikohe.  You stand, you fight who you not like, even full grown warrior like Taza.  That why Taza like you.  It good Taza keep you here.  Pionsenay have bad heart.  He kill you if he can.  Him say best way kill white eye snake is to kill when snake still small."

Coyani's tone caused Mark to shiver involuntarily.  He stared at the young warrior with a renewed sense of hopelessness.

"Do all Apache hate us like that?" he asked plaintively.

Coyani was silent again for a few moments as he thought of a proper reply.

"No.  Not all Apache hate white eyes.  Bad hearts like Nednhis, they hate everyone.  Galindo, Juh, Pionsenay, they hate.  They fight Mexicans, hide in Sierras. Chokonens not love white eyes, but not hate all white eyes, either.  Chokonens make peace, move to San Carlos.  Cochise give soldiers word—make peace.  Chihennes sometimes still fight.  Them led by Victorio and Nana.  Cannot say peace for them.  Soldiers at Fort Bowie ready for fight, make all Chiricahua worried."

"What about you?"

"Coyani no hate all white eyes," the youth responded evenly.  "Some white eyes bad, some not.  Coyani learn this from Nock-ay-del.  Not all white eyes same, not all Mexicans same, just as all Apache not same."

The comment hung in Mark's mind, as he remembered his father saying something very similar a few days ago.  Coyani did not seem like a murderer or a killer, despite his apparent toughness.  Nor was he was reeking of hate like Pionsenay.

But Sod Chambers hadn't been reeking of hatred either, Mark reminded himself grimly, and Chambers had shot his father down in cold blood.  People were not always what they seemed.

"Who is Nock-ay-del?" Mark asked.

"Him Tinneh medicine man," Coyani replied.  "Him wise man.  He know white eyes well.  Him speak good English."

"You speak pretty good English, too," Mark commented, and Coyani nodded.

"First learn at Fort Bowie," Coyani admitted.  "Nock-ay-del teach rest.  Him fight Soldado, him saved by white eyes and Mexicans.  That where he learn not all white eyes and Mexicans same.  Him say Tinneh must learn white talk, so can tell who is good heart, who is bad.  Him say Apache must not think all white eyes and Mexicans same.  Him teach Coyani white talk."

"You learned pretty good," Mark admitted.

It was evident that Mark's comment pleased the young warrior.

"Now, you learn Tinneh words," Coyani said.  "You learn speak Apache."

"My name is Mark."

"Ma-ahhk," the Apache said tentatively, struggling with the strange word.

"No, Mark."

"Mark," Coyani said, and Mark nodded.  Coyani smiled then, and Mark realized he had never seen an Apache smile before.  None of the warriors had ever smiled in his presence until that instant.  When they did that, he reflected in surprise, they seemed as friendly as anyone else he had ever met.

"Now Mark learn about Tinneh," Coyani said again, picking up his drawing stick.  "Soon you teach Coyani about white eyes story."

He leaned forward to draw out the map of Apacheria once again.

II

LITTLE RINCON MOUNTAINS, ARIZONA, 7 JUNE 1874

The small pool in the rocks had filled again when Lucas McCain opened his eyes and stared at the gray in the east.  He had slept through the night, and again he would have to survive the coming day.  Part of him longed to be up and on the trail of his son's kidnappers, but he knew he could not walk in hot sun, and he was still weak from the head wound.

Fortunately, most of the ill effects of the concussion seemed to have subsided, but he was weak from thirst, and there was a growing awareness of hunger in his belly.  He could not remember the last time he had eaten, and whatever he had managed to put in his stomach he had retched up during the previous day or so of delirium.

Crawling to the indentation in the rocks, he lowered his lips and pulled at the cool water.  Drinking until the pool was again empty, he rolled onto his back and stared at the disappearing stars as the sky turned from gray to blue.

He slept again, waking only when the rising sun forced him to crawl back among the rocks, where he drifted to sleep once more, his bones aching.  In his dreams, wild Apaches tortured his son on the hot sand with burning coals, and drove splinters of burning pine pitch under his fingernails as the boy screamed hideously.  In one particularly horrible dream, he stumbled upon a small pile of bones, which he identified as Mark only by the clothes hanging on the skeleton.  The dream woke Lucas with a start, his breath rasping loud in the hot air, and he would have cried, but he didn't have enough water in his body to form adequate tears.

It was mid-day and the air was already oppressive with heat when he awoke again.  Lucas crawled to the pool and drank more water, lapping up as much as he could find.  Tired and hungry, he crawled back into the shade and immediately fell asleep, but this time his sleep was not disturbed with grisly dreams of Apaches or torture.  Instead, he dreamed of his dead wife, Margaret, and of marigolds planted around a lonely cabin in the Nations.

He awoke again at sundown, as twilight descended, and drank the pool dry once more.  He felt much better, except for the incessant hunger gnawing at his stomach.  A movement in the rocks caused him to halt, and he watched with hungry eyes as a snake crawled into the open, beginning its night hunt for prey.

Western Diamondback, he told himself.  Venomous and deadly, like everything else in the desert.  Still, it was food, and he was in no condition to be picky about what he ate.  He would have to be careful, of course, for the snake was dangerous. A snakebite out here would certainly be fatal, especially in his weakened condition.  The knife was too short to use against such an animal without being bitten, so Lucas looked about, locating a short mesquite bush.  Using the knife, he hacked off a small branch, carefully watching the rattlesnake as it scurried up against a pile of rocks. 

 

Lucas picked up a large stone and got to his feet with the stick in his other hand.  He staggered a few steps, then moved toward the snake.  The rattler saw him coming and coiled.  Lucas jabbed at the snake with the stick and it buzzed its rattle loudly, then it struck at the stick.  As it did, Lucas smashed the rock down on its head.  The snake, stunned, coiled up in a series of death rolls, and Lucas used the time to club it to death with the stick.  He quickly cut the off the rattler's head, then slit it down the length of its belly and removed the entrails.  After a little pulling, he managed to remove the skin from the animal, and lay the carcass on a rock as he caught his breath.  The exertion of killing the snake had exhausted him.

Returning to the pool, Lucas drank again, spitting some of the water into his hands to clean the blood from them.  He felt unshaved and dirty, but it was the least of his concerns.  The water seemed to refresh him, and he moved into the rocks and built a small fire with mesquite sticks, using one of the few remaining matches he had.  Boiling the snake would have been best, but he had no way to do that, so he cut the snake into smaller pieces as long as his hand, then spitted them on sticks above the fire.

Lucas was careful to keep the fire small and deep in the rocks, and to use only dry wood, for the little smoke it produced would be hidden from searching eyes and dispersed by the boulders.  In less than an hour, he was eating heartily and hungrily, and thinking to himself that roasted rattlesnake was probably some of the best meat he had ever eaten.

Once it was fully dark, Lucas let the fire burn out and then covered the pit with rocks to hide his trail.  He returned to the pool once more and drank all of the water, then picked up his knife and walked out into the desert.

He moved slowly and carefully, heading south by referencing the peaks where the sun had set.  Within an hour, the moon rose, spreading its light across the sand, and Lucas searched desperately for a trail that was quickly growing cold.

The Apaches could have ridden north, of course, toward the reservation lands at San Carlos, but Lucas' frontier logic told him that was unlikely.  The renegades would not have been welcome on the reservation proper, and the gun runners would likely have headed for a town, either Tombstone or Tucson, maybe even Bisbee.  They would most likely go someplace to spend their hard-earned cash.  Lucas doubted they would have taken Mark with them.  The renegade Apache had been intent on raiding Mexico, and that meant they would most likely head south or southwest.  If Mark was still alive, he had to be with them, for the gun runners had no need for him.  Lucas could not imagine what he would do if he found the boy's body, but he would not deal with that situation until he had to.  He would have nothing left to live for, but he would die taking the boy's killers out.

At dawn, he was still heading south, and as the sun rose on his left and he saw faint traces of unshod hooves in the sand.  It might have been a herd of wild ponies, but the trail was narrow and in single file, and he knew white men usually rode line abreast, while wild horses did not usually travel in straight lines.  Most likely, it was an Apache trail.

As the sun rose, Lucas cut up a barrel cactus he found in an arroyo, and crawled into the brush and chaparral to wait out the heat of the day.  It was going to be another scorcher, but the cactus would provide him enough liquid and food until he could roam again that night.

The sun rose shortly thereafter and Lucas slept through the day.

III

AVRA VALLEY, WEST OF TUCSON, ARIZONA

John Cannon leaned on the pommel of his saddle and wiped his face with a bandanna.   He listened to the creak of saddle leather as he studied the men working for him.  Sam Butler, as usual, was doing his efficient work as foreman, and all of the hands were busy working for him. There really was no need for John Cannon to be riding herd on his men.  Still, being present while the men labored was a thing John felt he owed them for the most part.  The back-breaking work of rounding up cattle from the brush, checking them for parasites, branding and counting new calves was brutal work in the desert heat.  John knew from long experience, however, that if the boss was there, sharing the heat and the misery with his men, he kept their respect.  No, the men certainly did not need him to be there, but John was there for them anyway, and that was what mattered.

There was certainly plenty enough to keep his mind busy as he watched his men going about their work.  The Apaches, of course, were completely unpredictable.  For the most part, they had left the High Chaparral alone.  He was sure that was due primarily to Cochise's orders to so, for John knew he enjoyed a mutual certain respect with the Chiricahua chief.  There was never a guarantee, however, where Apaches were concerned.  Fights between the Chiricahua and the U.S. Army's Fifth Cavalry had only been increasing for the last few months, and new battles were erupting all over Arizona every day.  Since the beginning of April, the Army troops from Fort Lowell and Fort Bowie had killed well over a hundred Apache warriors. They had also taken about a hundred more as prisoner as they struggled to stop the "renegade" depredations against ranchers and travelers in Arizona. 

 

The Apache had, so far, left John Cannon's ranch alone.  Certainly, the Apache chief had learned that the High Chaparral treated fairly with Indians.  It was also possible, he conceded with reluctantly, that the Apache probably left the High Chaparral alone precisely because he had a large number of hands who could fight; tough men who rode for the brand.  The Apache respected nothing so much as strength.

Several renegade bands were reportedly off the reservation and that meant trouble.  Cochise himself seemed to be keeping his word to remain at peace, yet there was no denying that Apache bands were out raiding.  Just in the last two days, he had personally come across the trail of three parties of Apache horses, their small, unshod hooves leaving a faint and distinct track.  That morning, Sam had found a partially butchered calf.  John did not begrudge the Apache a calf here and there, but he was certainly beginning to regret sending Buck and Manolito off into the desert by themselves. 

 

Yet what could he have done?  He had to get the work done for the summer.  The High Chaparral was hard-pressed to split its hands between protecting the ranch itself and working cattle on the ranges.  Buck was wily enough when left alone in the wilderness, for he had sand, and Manolito was with him.  Manolito could speak Apache, and knew much of their ways, yet still John was worried.

Two men all alone might not attract enough attention to warrant an Apache attack, but the Apache were notoriously attentive to such things, and would not hesitate to kill lone riders they believed to be easy prey.  To make matters worse, several of the renegades had attacked an Army caravan only a few weeks earlier, and made off with a large cache of the Army's new Springfield carbines, as well as plenty of ammunition. There was no doubt who the guns were going to be used against, either.

Buck and Manolito had no business being out there alone, and he was the one who had sent them into danger.  At the time, it had simply been a snap decision, one of many he had to make each day, albeit one designed to force Buck to shape up.  His brother had the irritating habit of playing the fool in front of the men, and if he let Buck get away with it, the others would try it, too.  That the wildest buffoon in the bunch was his own brother galled John Cannon to no end.  How could he maintain the respect of the men if he was unable to control his own brother?

Yes, Victoria had been right.  Perhaps he had overreacted and been a little too hard on Buck.  After all, Buck was a grown man who had lots of pride, and he certainly deserved respect and admiration from his own brother.  Despite that fact, John had learned long ago that you could not leave Buck to do work on his own and expect any good to come of it.  He was lazy at times, and you could you force him to do something he did not want to do.  Buck had to make up his own mind about anything.  But you could coerce Buck into doing work if he thought he was showing you up.

John grimaced suddenly and rubbed the sweat out of his eyes with a gloved hand.  Buck was certainly an appropriate name for his younger brother.  Buck had never taken very well to having a saddle on his back.  He didn't like being pushed, either.  Not by anyone, including his big brother.  In some ways, Buck was still that little kid who had tagged along behind, following John through those hills and woods of Virginia so long ago.  Despite their differences of opinion over many issues, Buck was still tagging along in John's wake, just as he had always done.  That was Buck, as constant as the sun in the sky, who was always there to back John up when he needed it.  The same as he had been true through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and now Arizona.  Yes, Buck was quite a character, but a man could ask for no finer brother.  John knew that, and he believed that Buck knew he knew that, but it was just not in John to tell him so.

Yet, he was the one who had had sent not only Buck, but his wife's brother as well, out by themselves into Apache country.

If he just wasn't so pig-headed, John thought sourly.  If he would just do what I tell him, when I tell him, he'd be fine.  In fact, he'd be a big man out here.  He could have his own ranch, and the Cannon brothers could carve an empire out of this desert.  He's a brave man and a loyal brother, but he's so hard-headed he'd argue it was dark with the sun itself!  Why can't he just do what he's told to do?

Since childhood, John had watched over Buck, protecting him.  John had always tried to set a good example; always tried to be respectable and right.  His father, before his death, had been a strong man, who had always insisted that a man should fork his own broncs and check the rightness of his actions.  John had been a dutiful son, and he had taken his father's advice to heart. 

 

Buck had, at first, followed John's example, for he had adored his bigger brother, but as he had entered adolescence Buck had developed a kind of rogue's independence; a devil-may-care attitude that John had never quite understood.  Then the war had come and torn their family apart, just as it had torn apart so many others. The war had changed them both, in different ways. 

 

John had learned hard and fast that someone had to be in charge; someone had to be responsible for what happened, or chaos ruled.  He had learned, through painful experience, that the best thing a man could do was step forward, take the bull by the horns, and lead other men.  Men would follow a leader who was sure of himself; one who took swift and decisive action.

Buck had learned, it seemed, exactly the opposite.  Buck's disdain for authority had only grown worse during the war, no doubt due to the number of pompous gentlemen officers the South had, the Southern aristocrats, who had sometimes abused their men.  Where John had learned through grief that men needed strong leaders to survive, especially in combat, Buck had seen too many so-called "leaders" order their men to their deaths for completely stupid reasons.  Buck's response to this kind of leader had a constant resistance to following blindly.  While that was admirable in many ways, the trait also tended to stick in John's craw from time to time, particularly where his authority on the ranch was concerned.  John knew his own tendency was toward bossiness.  Certainly, Victoria told him that often enough.  It was a habit, he admitted reluctantly, one he had honed over the years, and it helped him to make decisions quickly.  Buck was  different, however.  He could be controlled through hurt and guilt, and John was not above using such tactics simply because they worked so well.

And look what it's done.  Now, your brother and brother-in-law are out there alone and in risk of losing their hair.  And for what?  Just so you could prove a point?  Just to put Buck in his place?  To remind them that you are the boss?  What kind of brother are you, John Cannon?

The thought was sobering, and John chewed his lower lip as he fretted in silence and squinted in the bright sunlight.  It was something a man had to do, this worrying, and he had to do it alone.  It was not something you could share with your hired hands.  A man did not let anyone else see his weakness.  If a man exposed a weakness, other men soon took advantage.  That was the law of the land.  A man learned to clamp down hard on anything that might be considered soft, and he learned to be brutally hard with everyone else.  A man had to be consistent, in thought and in manner, for this was a hard land that bred tough men, and many of them were ruthless.  A man on the frontier quickly learned not to back up for anyone.  What was considered courteous in the East could quickly lose one respect in the West, and respect was very, very important.

 

A man learned never to apologize, for other men saw that as a sure sign of weakness.  John was smart enough to know that it was not true, but he knew that was how western men tended to see things, and when you lived among them you dealt with their perceptions and customs.  You played by their rules.  A man might apologize in private, but almost never in public.  It was too much like backing down.  The key was to make correct decisions in the first place, based upon what was fair and right, and then to stick to them no matter what happened.

Just who are you trying to control out here?  Your men, certainly.  But what of the others?  Blue?  You can't even understand the boy!  He doesn't value anything you've done for him, and you can't understand why he resists growing up and becoming a man.  He's just like his uncle, only softer.  Buck?  Fat chance!  You can't control Buck any more than you can control the Apache.  And Victoria?  Ha!  Not in your lifetime! 

 

He grimaced as he thought of his beautiful, hot-tempered wife.  Like Buck and the Indians, she had her own mind. She could no more be controlled than could the moon and the stars.  He had once asked her why he could order everyone around on the High Chaparral except her.

"Because, my husband," she had replied coyly "you're men really respect you…and I love you."  Then she had kissed his cheek and waltzed off.  It had been the first time she had ever told him she had loved him, and he had not known what to say.

Her attitudes about such things were as exasperating as Buck's.

Why can't they all just do what they're told?

Well, would you?

The thought came suddenly, and it made him snort.  No, certainly not.  He had to admit that.  He would not have taken well to someone telling him what to do, either.  Maybe, if he tried, he might actually understand why his family members seemed to buck his authority so much.  It might just be that his bossiness was a hard saddle for them to have on their back.

John looked up as Sam Butler reigned in beside him, lifting a canteen to drink.  Sam's blue eyes were bright, and he nodded in greeting.  John smiled as he nodded in reply.

"Seen any more sign?" John asked.

"No, boss.  Just that cut-up calf we found."

"Well, I don't mind a steer here and there.  The Army's been pretty slow in getting food to the reservation—food they promised the Apache as a condition of peace.  When they do deliver it, it's usually wormy beef not fit for a human being, or flour that's full of weevils.  If we have to lose a steer here and there, well, it's more than worth it to keep the peace.  Even Apaches have to eat."

"That they do," Sam admitted, his deep voice booming in the desert.  "I came to tell you we have a rider coming in."

"Oh?  Who? Buck?"

"No, it's not Buck or Mano.  I don't recognize the horse.  Single mounted rider, out yonder, toward the east."

John turned his horse to look in the direction Sam indicated.  He saw the stoop-shouldered rider a moment later, barely visible in the sage and chaparral.  The rider wore a white hat.  He was approaching through a sandy area sprinkled with the white and yellow blossoms of rose heath and snakeweed.  The rider appeared to be an older man, for he had a white beard.  There was a rifle draped over his saddle.

Several of the hands had stopped working to watch the man approach, but quickly resumed their duties when Sam rode over and glared at them.  Sam would not brook them staring at what was obviously the boss's business.

 

 John sat still as the rider worked his way through the brush and approached slowly.

"Hello," the rider said, yelling from some distance out.  "I'm a white man.  I'm coming in."

John stood in his stirrups and waved him in.  The rider placed his rifle in a saddle boot and galloped the rest of the way in.  He was tall and white-haired, with a snaggle-toothed grin in his scraggly white beard.  The man had dark brushy brows above bright blue-green eyes.  John grinned as the man came to a halt beside him.

"Tom Jeffords!" he exclaimed in surprise, leaning forward to shake hands.  "What brings you out to the High Chaparral?"

Jeffords smiled warmly, but his eyes looked concerned as he shook hands, hen spat in the dust before replying.

"Big John," he said, "we have a small problem."

 

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