Kiannatah chose his moment well. He waited until the soldiers began to grow careless in their overconfidence. The Coyoteros weren't able to put up more than a tepid defense; only occasionally did one of the bronchos get off a shot. So the cavalrymen left their cover and began to work their way, slowly, down the slopes, firing as they moved. Only then did Kiannatah act.
During the previous night he had made his way to the rim of the west canyon wall. This placed him above the cavalrymen who had been posted on that side, with the nearest being less than thirty yards away. He had the advantage of knowing where all of the soldiers had been hidden. They, on the other hand, had no inkling of his presence, until he began to shoot them from his vantage point.
With each shot, one soldier fell. Kiannatah got off several rounds before some of the troopers realized what was happening. Only then did Kiannatah move, laterally across the rim, keeping behind the rocks, and never exposing himself to enemy fire. From a new position he fired several more times, killing two more of the soldiers, and when the bullets began to sing off the rocks that protected him, he moved again. The troopers continued to fire at his previous position even as he took up a new one and fired once, twice, three times. The soldiers on the other side of the canyon were now shooting in his direction too, but the distance was too great for any accuracy on their part, and Kiannatah didn't worry about them. He moved and fired so quickly and efficiently that the soldiers on the slope below—those left alive, anyway—began to panic, thinking they had been outflanked by a large enemy force. Instead of forging back up the slope to flush Kiannatah from the rimrock, they broke and scattered like quail. Several of them fell prey to the remaining Coyoteros.
The tide of battle turned, Kiannatah found a place from which he could clearly see up-canyon, in the direction of the place where the Mescalero scouts had appeared a few minutes earlier. He was hoping for a shot at the man in the stovepipe hat. But the man, and his Mescalero companions, had vanished. Kiannatah had to be satisfied with knowing that he'd turned the tables on his nemesis by using the same tactics the old scout had used against him years earlier, on the day he and the White Mountain Apaches had taken Oulay. Killing the old scout would have to wait for another day.
The canyon battle lasted less than ten minutes. Seeing that his ambush had turned into a death trap for his own soldiers, the yellow-leg officer made an orderly retreat, and before long the shooting had stopped altogether. For a while there was no sound in the canyon save the noises made by a dying horse in the canyon bottom. Kiannatah waited until all the smoke and dust had cleared before showing himself. Then he stood up in plain view of the surviving Coyoteros, and raised the rifle over his head.
"Do not shoot!" he shouted down at them. "I am Kiannatah, a Netdahe, and it is I who have saved you."
They didn't shoot. He ventured down the slope, and during the descent he passed by one of the soldiers he'd shot. The man wasn't quite dead; he crawled slowly, weakly, through the rocks, leaving a trail of bright red blood. Kiannatah drew his revolver and put a bullet into the base of the soldier's skull, hardly slowing his stride.
Once he reached the canyon bottom, where dead horses and Coyotero bronchos littered the pale sand, he saw the surviving warriors emerge from their hiding places. They looked at him with a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
"I wish to see Valerio," he said. "Take me to him."
Chapter 21
Deep in the Mogollon Mountains, the Coyotero stronghold was a collection of jacales on a high plateau from which lookouts could easily spot anyone approaching from three sides; the fourth was protected by a rugged peak. The inhabitants of the che-wa-ki were out in force as the Coyotero war party, accompanied by Kiannatah, rode in, and since the lookouts had also been able to see that the bronchos were bringing in their dead, there was great anxiety etched on the faces of the villagers. The wives and sisters and daughters of the slain warriors immediately launched into loud wailing when they saw the bodies; one woman proceeded to cut deep gashes into her arms and legs with a knife. Kiannatah observed this with indifference. He noted that, in spite of the attention paid to the corpses of the bronchos, his presence did not go unheeded. A number of the warriors watched him intently, and some with suspicion written across their features.
The leader of the war party dismounted and approached a stern, gray-haired man, launching into a narrative of the raid and the ambush in the canyon. As he spoke, most of the Coyotero men gathered round. He announced that the Netdahe who now rode with them had saved them from destruction. Singlehandedly, the Netdahe had routed the yellow-leg soldiers, and then asked to meet with Valerio.
The gray-headed warrior brushed past the war party leader and approached Kiannatah, who had by this time dismounted, and was standing at his horse's head. Though he had never met the famous jefe of the Coyoteros, Kiannatah felt it was safe to assume that this was Valerio. The chief stood toe-to-toe with him for a moment, looking gravely into his eyes, as though he could see into Kiannatah's heart and know his true motives. Or perhaps, mused Kiannatah, he was just trying to intimidate. Kiannatah returned the gaze; he, who had stood up to Geronimo, was not one to be intimidated by the likes of Valerio.
"We are grateful for your help," said Valerio, begrudgingly. "In return, anything you ask, I will do, within reason."
"I ask for nothing—except to join you in your fight against the White Eyes."
Valerio looked at him for a moment more, then turned, making a curt gesture. "Come with me," he said, and led the way to a nearby jacal. At the entrance he stood to one side and motioned for Kiannatah to enter. This the Netdahe did, without hesitation, though, as always, he was wary. But only Valerio joined him inside the jacal. The Coyotero jefe sat cross-legged near the ashes of the fire in the center of the jacal. To show respect, Kiannatah stood until another gesture by Valerio invited him to sit, as well. Here, in private, hidden from the eyes of his people, the jefe dropped his guard, and Kiannatah watched the gray-haired man's shoulders slump, and his eyes fill with pain and regret.
"You have come too late," he said. "Our fight with the White Eyes is nearly over."
Kiannatah sat silent, waiting to hear more.
"I warned the Pinda Lickoyi that if they did not punish the scalphunters who had killed some of my people, they would pay a terrible price. But instead of punishing the scalphunters, they let them go free. And once free, these men murdered many Aravaipa, among them women and children. The Coyoteros went to war with the Pinda Lickoyi because of this. We thought that was the right thing to do. The Aravaipa are our brothers. Just as the Mimbrenos, the Mescaleros, the Bedonkohes, the Chiricahuas are all our brothers. But did our brothers join us in this war against the White Eyes? We thought surely they would. Yet even now the Coyotero stand alone. Just a few days ago word came from Mexico that Cochise had promised the White Eyes that he would not go to war against them." Valerio shook his head. "Even Cochise, after everything that has happened to his own people, has abandoned his brothers."
Valerio's lament left Kiannatah unmoved. "You do the right thing in fighting the White Eyes. So it does not matter if others fight with you."
Valerio fired an angry glance at his guest. "You are Netdahe. It does not matter to you. You are accustomed to fighting alone. And you do not have to concern yourself with the welfare of women and children. Without the other bands, the best we can do is hide out in these mountains, and send out raiding parties. Sometimes the men come back. Sometimes they do not. And even if they succeed, what good does that really do? They kill a few Pinda Lickoyi. They steal some horses. They are like mosquitoes stinging a great bear. Their efforts are hardly noticed at all."
"A few men can make a difference."
Valerio was silent for a moment. "Yes, sometimes that is true. You made a difference today, and you are but one man. But you fight the way you do because you have nothing to lose."
"Neither do you. None of us do. Sooner or later, all Apaches will know that what I say is true. Even
Cochise will realize that he has been wrong to seek peace with the White Eyes. But then it may be too late."
"Too late?" echoed Valerio bitterly. "Too late for what? To defeat our enemies? This we can never do. They are too many, and we are too few."
"If you believe that, why have you gone to war?"
"To force the Pinda Lickoyi to treat us with more respect."
Kiannatah scoffed. "Are we the slaves of the Pinda Lickoyi, that we hope to be treated better?"
Valerio was resentful. "It is easy for you to speak so boldly. Again, you have only yourself to look out for. All of the people you saw out there depend on me to do what is best for them. I went to war to protect them from the scalphunters—to force the yellow-leg soldiers to do the right thing themselves, and kill the scalphunters, or drive them away forever. But if no others will join us in our fight, I must consider surrender. Soon, all of our young men will die. And when that happens, the Coyoteros will die."
"You forget, I have come to join you. Let me lead your young men, and soon we will sting the White Eyes like the scorpion, not the mosquito. And then, who knows?" Kiannatah shrugged. "Maybe the other bands will see that the Coyoteros are winning their war, and they will change their minds, and come to join you."
Valerio's eyes narrowed as he gazed for a moment at the Avowed Killer. He did not doubt that Kiannatah was genuinely interested in instigating a full-scale Apache war against the white interlopers. But he was suspicious of this man's true motives. The survival of the Chi-hinne, The People, had never been a priority among the Netdahe. They wanted only to kill their enemies, and a full-scale war would give Kiannatah and his ilk plenty of opportunities for killing. But, ultimately, the Netdahe expected to die, and since they did not expect to live, they didn't care if anyone else did, either.
Even though he was suspicious of Kiannatah, Valerio thought that the Netdahe warrior might be useful to him, in the short term. If the Coyoteros did win a few significant victories, he might yet earn some consideration from the Pinda Lickoyi when the time came to seek a peaceful resolution to the current conflict. Of course, he could never tell Kiannatah that he ever intended to seek such a resolution; the Netdahe wouldn't stand for that.
But the Netdahe might not live to see that day. He might die in battle. And if he didn't, Valerio was fully capable of killing him, once he was no longer useful.
"You may lead the next raid," said the Coyotero jefe. "But there are conditions. You will not take on the yellow-leg soldiers unless you have no other choice. And you will not attack the ranchero of the man named Barlow, which lies to the east of the mountains."
"Why not?"
"He is not our enemy. He tried to stop the scalphunters. Before, he allowed us to kill some of his cattle for meat, and he said nothing of it."
"I see," said Kiannatah.
"Some of the men here do not agree with me on this matter," conceded Valerio. "A few months ago, they attacked the ranchero, and were driven away. The vaqueros who work for Barlow are good fighters. But as long as they do not ride against us, I will not make war against them."
Kiannatah shrugged again, feigning indifference. He knew now that this man of whom Valerio spoke, the one called Barlow, had to be the officer who had taken Oulay away from the Chiricahuas—and away from him. The ranchero had to be the very one he had attacked years earlier. He had killed three of these vaqueros Valerio feared so greatly, and made off with Oulay. Only because of the efforts of the man in the stovepipe hat and his White Mountain scouts had he lost her.
He began to think about trying again.
For now, though, he would pretend to go along with Valerio.
"It will be as you say," he replied. "I will not lead your men against the ranchero, or against the yellow-legs. But I must at least take away their eyes. The soldiers are not alone. They are helped by Mescalero scouts. If I kill them, the soldiers will be blind, and we will be have more success. Besides, Apaches who turn against their own kind do not deserve to live."
As he spoke, he thought of Nachita, the Chiricahua he had murdered, out of nothing more than spite. That, more than his desire for Oulay, was what had turned Cochise against him. He told himself that he'd done the deed because of his anger—he'd just learned that Oulay had been taken away by a white man, with her father's blessing.
Valerio nodded wearily. When he spoke, it was without enthusiasm. "Do what you wish where the Mescalero are concerned."
He rose, and stepped out of the jacal. Kiannatah followed. Many of the Coyotero were still gathered outside, waiting to find out what would come of the meeting between their jefe and the lone Netdahe. Valerio informed them that Kiannatah had come to join in their fight against the White Eyes, and that he would be given the honor of leading the next raid.
Kiannatah only half listened to Valerio's speech, and paid no attention to the crowd. Their reaction to this news didn't matter to him. What mattered was that he had arrived in the nick of time. Valerio had lost his taste for war. He'd been on the verge of giving up the fight. But now he, Kiannatah, would carry on. And if he succeeded, the Coyoteros would win great victories—so great, in fact, that perhaps the other bands of the Chi-hinne would reconsider, and join in the effort. But no matter how it ended, Kiannatah would at least have another chance to kill the man in the stovepipe hat. And perhaps even another chance to take Oulay for his own.
Chapter 22
"It was my fault," said Charles Summerhayes. "I take full responsibility."
General Crook was pacing the length of the porch that fronted the Fort Union headquarters building. His movements, his expression—even his grim silence in the aftermath of the lieutenant's words—projected his aggravation. All Summerhayes could do was stand there and watch as the general continued pacing for a full minute—a full minute of exquisite torture for the lieutenant. It was bad enough that he'd disappointed Crook, a man he so greatly admired. Worse than that, he'd lost a third of his command. There were dead men on his conscience.
Cronin stood nearby. Short Britches was also present. He and his Mescalero scouts had returned to the fort with Summerhayes and the shot-up contingent of cavalrymen.
"The plan was unworkable, in my opinion," said Cronin, finally. "General, give me two full companies and I'll go straight into the Mogollons and flush those Coyoteros out. Or kill them all."
Crook stopped pacing. He glowered at Cronin, then at Summerhayes.
"Well, Lieutenant, perhaps Captain Cronin has the right idea." That kind of thinking was exactly why he had deserved the promotion from major. "We tried your plan, Summerhayes. It didn't work."
Summerhayes didn't bother explaining to Crook that it hadn't really been his plan at all. Short Britches was the one who'd come up with the scheme to hit the Coyotero raiding parties as they came out of, or returned into, the mountains. If they struck at several such raiding parties, and were able to inflict significant casualties upon the bronchos, Valerio would probably give up the fight. This had been the old scout's assessment, and Summerhayes had agreed wholeheartedly. But he wasn't about to shift the blame to someone else. He'd been the one who had sold General Crook on the plan, and he was willing to pay the piper for its failure.
"No, sir," he said, "it didn't work. This time. But I still believe it's the right way to go about this."
"Do you now," said Crook dryly.
"The captain's plan won't work," remarked Short Britches.
Crook fixed his glower on the old scout—who seemed completely oblivious to it. Short Britches sat on the porch steps, carving a chew off a twist of tobacco that he'd gotten from the Fort Union store.
"And why not?" asked Crook.
"Because you'll lose a lot more men that way. Maybe two companies worth. They'll ride straight into an ambush. And they won't get anywhere near the Coyotero camp."
"We might," said Cronin coldly, "if you and your scouts do your jobs."
Short Britches shook his head. "The Mescaleros wouldn't go."
"The hell t
hey won't," said Cronin. "They're in the employ of the United States Army, and they'll go where we send them, and do what we tell them to do."
"No, they won't, because it would be suicide. To attack the Coyoteros when they are out of the mountains is the way to do this. We would have succeeded two days ago, except for one rifle. And I do not think it was a Coyotero rifle. I think it was Netdahe."
"Netdahe!" exclaimed Crook. "I thought they were all supposed to be down in Mexico."
"It's hard to say where a Netdahe will be," replied Short Britches. "But I think one of them was at that canyon the other day. I think this way because we did not know he was there until he started shooting. That is just like a Netdahe. They move like the wind—and cannot be seen."
"If he's right," said Cronin, "and the Avowed Killers have joined forces with Valerio, then we've got a much bigger problem, sir."
"Could be just one," said Short Britches. "They do not owe allegiance to any band, or even to one another. They are outlaws. They come and go as they please."
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