Joaquin Cruce de Tierras lived the rest of his days a happy man.
Chapter One
Sonora, Mexico
Autumn, 1843
Pierce Landcross couldn’t remain here in this cave. Not if he wanted to live. He worked on supporting himself against the rock. The arrow in his shoulder made it difficult to move or to breathe. Darkness surrounded him. Blood slid down his arm and back.
He feared he would never see his wife again.
Perhaps his enemies wouldn’t search for long, and by nightfall, he could escape. It was his only chance. He only hoped he wouldn’t bleed to death first. He caught sight of something, and it made him shake. Thankfully, he had managed to maintain his hold on his gun the entire time. He needed it more than ever, especially as the light of a fire drew closer.
Days earlier . . .
After a month and two weeks at sea, the Ekta had reached the seaside city of Guaymas. The ship sailed on by the city and up the coast for another mile, where the vessel at last turned and went over a waterway path cutting between tall rocky cliffs. A cavern waited at the end, and it was there that the Ekta dropped anchor.
The crew took longboats into the long cave tunnel.
Before the darkness slid completely over the boats, Pierce looked over at his wife, Taisia Landcross. He held her hand and placed his other on her slightly protruding belly.
“Are you all right?”
It was a question he asked her daily. That and How are you feeling? and Do you need anything? Taisia had carried her pregnancy well during the voyage. She had experienced very little sickness and was maintaining a normal appetite.
“I am fine,” she said in her Russian accent. “I’m only a bit nervous about meeting the tribe.”
Pierce slowly slid his hand down the side of her soft face and then leaned over to kiss her.
“No worries,” he assured her as everything went dark, save for the lanterns inside the boat. “The chief wouldn’t bring us if it weren’t safe.” He again touched her stomach. “And I’d kill a thousand buggers before I let anyone harm you or our child.”
Through the dim glow of the lantern, she smiled lovingly at him. “You are a poet, Pierce Landcross.”
He glanced behind him, where the silhouettes of his folks and grandmother followed them in another longboat.
The group drifted onward toward the opening ahead. The longboats entered a large basin surrounded by tall rocky walls. The Water Bowl was what the Apache called it. The only other way out of the formation was a path that started at the very back of the pool where a few natives waited on a boulder. The lead boat that Chief Sea Wind and his wife, Waves of Strength, traveled in, tossed up their rope to the awaiting tribesmen. Once the boat was steady enough, Waves of Strength stepped out onto the stairs carved into the side of the boulder. Once everyone was out of the longboat, the greeting party pulled the watercraft alongside the rock to tie it off on trees that grew from cracks in the stone.
As the rope to Pierce and Taisia’s boat was tossed up, the chief spoke to one of the greeters, who then took off up the trail. When everyone was joined together once more, they, too, headed upslope on the well-worn path created solely by the feet of those who had climbed the rocks for years.
The sun was brutally burning in the cloudless sky. There was nowhere else on Earth that Pierce had traveled where he’d experienced such a dry, relentless heat. He feared for his pregnant wife.
“I’m fine,” she again reassured him. “Just hold my hand.”
He did, all the way up until they crested the top where the ground leveled off. The flat desert plain stretched for what seemed like forever. It was blanketed by sand with puffs of green shrubbery. In the distance stood tall, jagged mountains.
They walked a mile or so to the Apache village. Chief Sea Wind had already explained to Pierce about the type of lodgings the Apache lived in—dome-like structures constructed right from the dirt, called hogans. The Apache village had many hogans. There was also a herd of horses by a river. Youngsters played in the water while mothers washed clothing. Men and women were making pottery, or preparing food. Under the shade of an open wooden structure, people rolled flour patties over flat stones and put what Chief Sea Wind called “acorn cakes” into rounded mud horno ovens.
The first one to greet the approaching party was a young boy who rushed toward them while yelling in Apache.
“Tarak!” Sees Beyond shouted.
She ran to him and lifted the boy into her arms. She twirled him around once as they embraced tightly. A young man soon joined her. He was a handsome gent with dark skin and long brown hair. Pierce reckoned he was Sees Beyond’s husband, Mohin.
Others approached to greet their returning loved ones or to see the foreigners they had brought with them. Waiting in the center of the village was a man and woman. The man wore a band around this head with eagle feather hanging down the side, tunic pants, a white shirt, and a dark vest. He appeared older than time itself, with deep creases carved into his dark, hardwood face. His eyes were squinted so narrowly that Pierce could barely see them. The woman standing beside him—her pigment a shade lighter than his—had very long, gray hair braided over her shoulder. She wore a beaded buckskin dress.
Waves of Strength spoke to them before embracing the elderly woman. They parted and kissed each other on both sides of the faces after the European fashion. Chief Sea Wind grasped the older man’s forearm and they shook. They spoke amongst themselves in their language for a moment, and as they did, Pierce eyed the river, tempted to go take a dip.
“Landcross,” called the chief.
Pierce and his family approached the four.
Chief Sea Wind turned his focus on his friend. “Pierce Landcross, this is Chief Victorio and his wife, Nascha.”
Pierce took off his top hat and held it behind him as he placed a hand on his chest and bowed to them both in a humble greeting.
Like most native tribes in the Sonora area, this tribe was multilingual, speaking both French and Spanish, as well as their native tongues. Since Pierce and the rest of his family were fluent French speakers, communication wasn’t going to be an issue.
“Bonjour. Heureux de vous rencontrer,” Pierce said.
“Mother, Father,” Waves of Strength said to the chief and Nascha. “This is Landcross’s wife, Taisia, his mother, Nona, father, Jasper, and grandmother, Élie Fey.”
Bloody hell, Pierce thought grimly. Are they her parents? Splendid.
A bit of information he wished he’d had gotten beforehand. After shooting their daughter in the arse, Pierce wondered just how welcomed he would be in the village.
After the pleasantries were done, they were brought to Chief Victorio’s hut for food and much-needed water. It was stifling inside. The only improvement was that the sun wasn’t beating down directly on them. Everyone took a seat around a fire pit under an open space directly above them. Pierce sat beside Taisia, who was next to his father. Nona sat between Jasper and Grandmother Fey. Chief Sea Wind and Waves of Strength took their place with Chief Victorio and Nascha across the way.
“We will keep the conversation in French,” Chief Victorio announced to the group.
“Merci,” Grandmother Fey said.
“How was your journey?” Nascha asked her daughter.
“The voyage fared well, Mother,” Waves of Strength replied. “We made it through the Atlantic and the Gulf without any trouble.”
“That is good to hear, Ela,” her mother said.
“I am no longer Ela,” Waves of Strength bleated. “Not for many years now.”
Nascha pinched her daughter’s cheek. “Ela is such a beautiful name.”
Waves of Strength flushed red with embarrassment. Pierce snickered, which caused Waves of Strength’s face to burn even hotter. Her irritated look was sharp enough to slice his head clean off.
Nascha turned her attention to Grandmother Fey. “Are you French?”
“Oui. I was born in Le Mans. Were you born her
e?”
“Arizona, then we traveled to New Mexico and parts of Texas before making our journey to Chihuahua. We arrived here many years ago.”
“You have traveled long distances,” Grandmother Fey noted.
“We are forced to.”
“I see,” Grandmother Fey whispered somberly. “I’m sorry.”
Nascha smiled warmly at her. “You’re a good-natured woman. I can sense that about you.”
A handful of natives entered, carrying food and cups of water. Pierce looked at the stack of acorn cakes. It was a simple dish, and a most welcomed one at that. He looked over at Taisia, wondering if she’d feel like eating. He’d seen pregnant women become violently ill at the sight of food.
Before he could ask, Taisia had already taken a bite. She closed her eyes as she chewed, letting out a slight moan that only he could hear. Confidant she was fine, he began eating.
“Pierce Landcross,” Chief Victorio said as the people who had carried in the food left.
“Sir,” Pierce responded, straightening his spine as much as his vertebrae would allow.
Normally, Pierce was the informal sort who referred to people by their first name. Chief Victorio struck Pierce as a man who didn’t necessarily demand respect but received it nonetheless.
“We have heard much about you, young man,” Chief Victorio said. “We’ve been told you’re an outlaw in Europe.”
Pierce eyed Waves of Strength, for he suspected she had told them.
“I was pardoned,” Pierce explained.
The chief’s attention shifted over to Taisia. “And your wife. Is she a free woman?”
Pierce understood why he wanted to know. The magnitude of inhuman cruelty inflicted upon the Africans for the past two hundred years was still being carrying on in the American southlands.
“I have always been a free woman, Chief Victorio,” Taisia answered for herself. “No one will ever own me.”
Pierce grinned widely at her. “Oui. If anything, she owns me.”
She slapped him on the arm. “I do not. Stop that!”
Everyone laughed.
After dinner, Waves of Strength and Nascha took Taisia, Nona, and Grandmother Fey away to show them where they were going to sleep. The men stayed behind.
“Our daughter told us your wife is expecting. How far along is she?” Chief Victorio asked, stuffing tobacco into a long wooden pipe.
“She’s only two months, Chief,” Pierce answered.
The old chief’s thin lips rose at the corners. “Children are a blessing. Cherish them, Landcross.”
“I intend to, sir.”
Chief Sea Wind bowed his head. His expression was somber.
“What is the matter, Captain Sea Wind?” Jasper asked.
The chief raised his chin to him. “Not all can have little ones to cherish.”
Pierce had known for some time that Chief Sea Wind and Waves of Strength were unable to conceive. A cruel irony.
“Let us smoke,” Chief Victorio said, striking a match.
Nothing much else was discussed as they passed the pipe around. Jasper, not used to smoking, coughed. Pierce expected to do the same, yet, strangely, when he filled his lungs with smoke, there was a familiar sensation that ignited a certain pleasure. This was the first time Pierce had ever smoked tobacco, and yet it was as if his body was welcoming an old friend. When he had partaken in Juan Fan’s opium den, he hadn’t experienced this reaction. He ignored it and passed the pipe on.
“We are united as peaceful beings,” Chief Victorio announced.
* * *
Night thankfully arrived, taking the sun out of the sky and dropping the temperature as it went. The Apache tribe held a welcoming celebration for their guests. The hunters returned with enough mule deer to feed the whole village. As the meat and other dishes were being prepared, Pierce helped start up the bonfire before joining Taisia on the blanket where she was sitting nearby.
“Are you well, love?” he asked, sitting next to her.
“I am now that the day has ended,” she said, leaning against him.
“Aye, it was brutal.”
“I fear I shall be spending most days inside our stuffy house when I cannot withstand the heat.”
Pierce glanced down at her clothing. Like his, it was tailored with heavy European fabrics. She had changed into a new dress before their voyage across the Atlantic, but it didn’t change the fact that the gown wasn’t equipped for the desert climate.
“I’ll go into Guaymas tomorrow and get us some supplies and new clothing,” he said. “Chief Sea Wind has loads of pesos, it turns out.”
She looked over at him. “You are such a good man, Pierce Landcross.”
“You’re my wife, and I am your husband. It’s our job to look after each other,” he told her tenderly.
They kissed and Taisia nestled against him.
“Besides,” he went on, “if I don’t get Mum some tea to drink in the morning, I doubt we’ll survive the week.”
Taisia snorted. “I’m sure. It appears Grandmother Fey and Nascha have taken a liking to each other.”
Sitting on the other side of the bonfire, the two women were chatting and laughing. It was a pleasant sight to see Grandmother Fey enjoying herself with someone other than family.
“Aye,” he agreed simply.
A group of children came up to them. Among them was Sees Beyond’s son, Tarak.
“‘Ello, Tarak,” Pierce greeted him in English, for Sees Beyond had taught him.
“Hello, Mr. Landcross,” the lad said politely. “Mother has told me a lot about you.”
A proud smirk played across his face. “Eh? And what did she say?”
“She said you have the same brand symbol we use to mark our horses.”
His smirk dropped. “Did she now?”
“Can we see?” Tarak requested in French so his mates could understand. “S’il vous plait?”
The rest of the little sods nodded enthusiastically. Pierce didn’t fancy the idea of showing off the scar that a vengeful woman had given him.
“Go on,” Taisia urged unhelpfully. “Show them.”
He gave her disapproving glare, but it did nothing to shrink her grin.
“Please, Mr. Landcross,” Tarak pleaded again.
Pierce felt he was being backed into a corner.
“Right. Fine.”
He unbuttoned a couple of his shirt buttons and pulled his lapel away. The children leaned in close to get a better look, some pushing each other.
“It’s true!” a girl declared. “He has been branded like our ponies. He’s our Łigai Thii!”
The children laughed.
“Lig—what?” Pierce asked.
“Łigai Thii,” repeated Tarak. “It means ‘white horse.’ You’ve been branded by this tribe’s symbol, so it’s almost as if you belong to us.”
Pierce remembered when Waves of Strength had fried his flesh with that blasted brander. Afterward, she’d stated he was now Apache property.
“Grand,” he grunted.
Chapter Two
Guaymas
The following morning, Chief Sea Wind gave him pesos and a horse.
Pierce pocketed the money. “Cheers, Chief. Can I get you anything while I’m in town?”
“Tobacco. For my father-in-law.”
“No worries.”
“I found you a guide,” Chief Sea Wind informed him, pointing his chin up toward someone behind Pierce.
Pierce turned to face the approaching horseman. He was a younger looking feller, perhaps Pierce’s age, wearing buckskin chaps, a breechcloth, and a white shirt with an unbuttoned vest. A bandana, lined with thin rope, was wrapped around his head, with a few feathers fluttering behind him. As it was with most Apache people, he had a very dark complexion and high cheekbones. When he reached them, Pierce noticed he had clear eyes, sharp and full of spirit. Pierce recognized him as one of the hunters from the night before.
“Itza-chu,” Chief Sea Wind said, �
��This is my dear friend, Pierce Landcross. Landcross, this is Itza-chu, my brother-in-law.”
“Brother-in-law?” Pierce asked. “Erm, as in . . . ?”
“He is Waves of Strength’s youngest brother,” the chief explained.
Pierce grimaced.
“Hello, Łigai Thii,” Itza-chu greeted with levity.
Chief Sea Wind laughed loudly. Pierce frowned. Apparently, the children had spread their little nickname around.
“The name’s Pierce,” he retorted.
Pierce noticed that holstered under the cheeky native’s belt was another Oak Leaf revolver pistol. It resembled his own in every way except for the color, which was sterling silver. It was the only other Oak Leaf pistol Pierce had ever seen. He had found his own copperplated model down in the hull of the Ekta. He reckoned Chief Sea Wind must’ve given it to him.
“Itza-chu will take care of you,” the chief promised. “And he will help keep you from wandering into Shawnee territory.”
Pierce turned to his horse and saw the figure eight brand on its hindquarters. “Right,” he grumbled.
With a huff, he mounted. It proved a tad difficult without a saddle. He needed to grab the lower end of the mane and hoist himself off the ground.
It was a quiet ride, for the most part—mainly because of his uncomfortable need to rely on the brother of the woman he’d shot. The revolver Itza-chu carried didn’t help matters.
“So, you’re the one who shot my sister,” Itza-chu spoke up suddenly.
If there was ever a time he truly wished he hadn’t shot Waves of Strength—other than when she had branded him—it was right then.
Pierce slowly turned to him. “Accidentally, mind you.”
Itza-chu snorted. “When she told me she was shot in the ass, I laughed very hard.” He rolled up his sleeve and slid his fingers over a scar along his forearm. “And in return, she sliced my arm with a knife.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” he gasped out in English before converting back to French. “She cut you?”
He rolled down his sleeve. “My sister has quite the temper.”
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