Woman of Three Worlds

by Jeanne Williams

  “Your way is better,” Brittany acknowledged.

  In the firelight Kah-Tay’s gaze seized her. For the first time, devastatingly, Brittany felt man-woman awareness pulse between them. Fixing her eyes on the North Star, she invoked the thought of Zach, thrilled painfully to remember his arms and hard, sweet mouth.

  She had hoped that somehow he might find her, ransom her, or help her escape. What if he had tried and been killed? No! She wouldn’t let herself even think of that. Damaging as it was to her pride, she’d rather believe he’d never started out but had left the search to Erskine and Michael O’Shea—who would never find her here, forbidden as the army was to cross the Mexican border.

  Rising, Brittany started for the wickiup, all too conscious that Kah-Tay was watching her. She couldn’t wait for rescue. She must make her preparations and slip away before winter came.

  Why? one part of her asked.

  She had no family to care about her fate. Erskine and O’Shea did, but they were soldiers and had always to deal with death and the loss of those they cared about. Though she could never accept some Diné ways, on the whole she fitted better with them than with artificial people like Regina. The freedom of their life and the marvelous though cruel land though which they ranged appealed to her as strongly as, in their different ways, Kah-Tay, Pretty Eyes, and Jody did.

  She flung herself down and wept for the first time in weeks. Zach was the reason she couldn’t stay here. She ached to see him again. But did he care at all?

  XIV

  During the next days she vacillated, terrified at the ordeal of trying to make her way back to the post yet increasingly sure that Kah-Tay desired her and would not long delay pressing his claims. She could refuse him now, but could she all winter long as life here became more and more the reality, Zach and her past the dream?

  One day as she was working on her dress, Grouchy looked up from sewing cone-shaped tinklers on Pretty Eyes’s tunic, which had been rubbed yellow to represent sacred pollen or hoddentin.

  “You’d better hope no White Eyes or Mexicans see you in that dress and think you’re Diné,” said the ancient woman spitefully. “They’d rape or kill you. Both, maybe.” She cackled at that thought.

  “Mightn’t Diné do that to a captive?” Brittany challenged.

  “Did they to you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Diné kill women,” Sara explained as she stitched new soles to a pair of Kah-Tay’s moccasins. “But they don’t often rape. If a warrior does this on a raid, it brings very bad luck.”

  “But I thought quite a few Mexican women captives became the wives of Diné.”

  “They do.” Sara shot Brittany a questioning look and smiled slightly. “It’s all right for a warrior to take a woman if he can make her love him.”

  Something in her words and expression shook Brittany. If he can make her love him …

  Brittany Laird loved Zach Tyrell, however he felt about her. But each day she became more and more Blanca, more part of Kah-Tay’s household. If he really laid siege to her, when spring came would she have the will to go?

  That very day she made a small rock-lined cache and began to save food, appropriating here a bit of mescal, there a little jerky, saving it from what she ate because working with these people had taught her how hard food was come by and she would have felt she was stealing to take more than her share. She would get her clothes made, and then, at the first good chance, she’d strike north.

  While she hoarded food and waited for a time when Kah-Tay would be gone for several days so she’d have a chance at a head start, the life of the band went on. Death also, for a baby who was only a few weeks old died one night.

  The tiny body was wrapped in its cradleboard and the parents took it away to return sorrowfully. Sara told Brittany they had placed the cradleboard in a tree, along with a tus of water for its journey, and would never go there again.

  “Diné don’t speak the names of those who are gone,” she added. “We think they will hear, even in the Happy Place, and have to come.”

  “What’s the Happy Place?”

  Sara laughed. “Better than your heaven, I think.” She waved her arm to encompass the fertile valley and wooded mountains. “It will be a lot like this. Good grass and water, plenty to eat. Lots of game. No one will die or get sick. There will be feasts and games and races and gambling. All happy things with nothing bad.” Her smile faded.

  “We believe that whatever is done to a person’s body will be that way in the Happy Place. That is why we have never forgotten what soldiers did to the great chief who was father-in-law to our great chief.”

  She spoke of Mangus Coloradas treacherously murdered on a cold February night when he came in to parley. His head had been cut off and boiled by an army surgeon so that the skull could be measured, as was the scientific craze, and then be sent to the Smithsonian Institute.

  There were more rites of hope, though, in the camp than of mourning. One of Big Jaw’s sons had left his cradleboard, so his First Moccasins ceremony was held. After praying, the di-yin, or person who had the power for this ritual, daubed the assemblage with pollen just before dawn. As the sun rose the di-yin lifted the baby four times toward it, then four times to each of the other directions.

  As White-Painted Woman had done for her son, the di-yin marked four pollen footprints on a piece of buckskin and led the baby over them while saying a prayer about Child of the Waters’s first steps. After more prayers, symbolic steps, and songs, the baby was carefully measured for his first moccasins.

  Big Jaw’s family, including Fawn, now very heavy with child, gave gifts to all the guests and served a feast. When the moon rose the boy was lifted toward it, and all prayed that he might grow tall and strong.

  “Next spring, in the time of Little Eagles, he will have his hair-cutting,” Pretty Eyes told Brittany. “The di-yin, who must have thick hair himself, will brush the little boy’s face with pollen and bury the cut hair under a budding tree.”

  “I thought hair was only cut in times of mourning,” Brittany said.

  “It is, for grown-ups,” Pretty Eyes smiled. “But starting in the time of Little Eagles, after the child leaves the cradleboard, hair has to be cut four springs to make it thick and healthy.”

  A few days later several warriors and their families trudged in wearily from San Carlos with the shocking news that Taza, son of Cochise and elected leader of the Chokonen, had died during a trip to Washington with the young agent John Clum.

  Clum and the other Indians who had gone swore that Taza had been looked after by the best doctors and buried with honor in a great cemetery for White Eye military heroes there in Washington, a place called Arlington, but, of course, the traditional burial rites hadn’t been performed. Clum had hoped to influence the public and the government to deal more understandingly with the Indians, but some general named Custer had been killed with his soldiers up north by the Sioux, so the national mood was generally vengeful toward all Indians.

  “We have been sent to San Carlos to die,” said one of the warriors bitterly. “Still, we might have endured if General Crook had been left in charge. He told us there must be an end to raiding but he was teaching us to grow cattle and raise our food.”

  “The contractors don’t like that,” said his companion. “They make big money selling supplies to the army and by feeding us bad food. They don’t even want our women to cut wild hay and sell it to the post.”

  “They will buy the heads of warriors, though,” said Big Jaw. “Of the Tontos, were not the heads of seven displayed on the parade ground for days?”

  Kah-Tay nodded. “I heard it. And Agent Jeffords told me that General Crook paid twice for the head of one war chief, once at Fort McDowell and again at Camp Verde.” He shrugged. “Crook was a grim warrior, but his word was good. He would have given us good reservations where we could keep ourselves alive. But I will never go in to that baked land of scorpions that is San Carlos—unless it is to d
raw rations through the winter, rest, and leave in the spring to go raiding in Mexico as we have always done.”

  There were sounds of approval. Rising, Kah-Tay asked Sara to give the runaways food and whatever they needed before he vanished down the canyon.

  When he returned, several days later, his luxuriant hair, which he usually wore folded through his belt to keep it from dragging on the ground, had been shorn jaggedly about his shoulders and he looked hollow-eyed and weary.

  Sara urged acorn soup upon him and made him drink a brew of herbs. After this he slept. Next morning he said to Pretty Eyes, “We need a lot of good presents for your ceremony and perhaps I can find some pretty ornaments for your dress. Big Jaw, Long Hair, and some of the others want to go on a raid. We’ll go south and see if we can’t waylay a wagon train bound to or from the City of Mules.”

  That was the name for Chihuahua, capital of the Mexican state of the same name, and a center of trade. Brittany’s heart leaped and began to pound with fright and anticipation.

  This was her chance. Such a raid should take at least three or four days, more likely a week or so, depending on when the party hit upon suitable prey. She pitied those unfortunates, but she was going to use this opportunity.

  Kah-Tay’s green eyes touched her. He said with a brief smile, “Perhaps, Blanca, there will be fine trimmings for your dress too.”

  She flushed and muttered something, half afraid that he might guess her plan. If only he’d take Sara with him, escape would be much easier. Sara was a di-yin. Her special power was to tell when enemies were near and in which direction.

  Sara packed jerky, mescal, and dried berries for her brother, but she made no preparations for herself. To Brittany’s anxious disappointment, as soon as Kah-Tay and his five companions left next morning, Sara suggested a hunt for juniper berries.

  “There are no piñon nuts this harvest,” she said regretfully. “They are very good but often make a crop only every third or fourth time When the Earth is Reddish Brown. So we must get all the juniper berries we can, and all the walnuts.” She sighed. “I hope my brother brings home many mules and horses. The families from the reservation had to run away without any food, so extra meat will be needed this Ghost Face season.”

  Brittany had absolutely no hope of slipping away all that long day and was tired that night from hours of reaching up for the purple berries or climbing up to garner them. These would be dried, boiled soft, ground up, and shaped into balls for storage.

  Since Sara had proposed they spend the next several days in search of these berries or walnuts, it was dismayingly clear that Brittany must start her journey at night.

  She was frantic to get as far as possible before Kah-Tay returned. Before going to bed that night, she left her burden basket at the brush arbor and placed her almost finished dress by her bed. She had gratefully worn her moccasins for the first time that day and had had two sets of extra soles in her cache. She also intended to take the hourglass-shaped pitch-daubed water carrier that could be thrust through a belt.

  Since his father was gone, Jody slept in Sara’s wickiup that night. Brittany’s nerves were so taut she was at the screaming point when he finally stopped pestering Grouchy for yet another coyote story and lay down. Brittany longed to give him a farewell hug but was afraid that might give the ever-alert Sara a hint. She had to content herself with ruffling his hair and saying, “You’re getting big and strong, Jody.”

  He yawned sleepily. “Yes. I hope Father lets me take care of his horse when he comes back.”

  Brittany frowned. “But he didn’t ride. They went on foot.”

  Jody chuckled. “They will come back on mules or horses, though, leading many others.” He patted her hand. “I think Father will bring you good presents.”

  At loss for an answer, Brittany squeezed his hand and lay down. She’d miss Jody. She was sorry she wouldn’t get to watch Pretty Eyes’s ceremony or admire Fawn’s baby. It would be strange to hear no more of old Grouchy’s tales.

  Though she and Sara weren’t exactly friends, Brittany admired the medicine woman and constantly learned useful things from her. She wished them all well and prayed they might live free, though she didn’t see how that could be unless they gave up raiding, which was not likely to happen. Even Apache groups that raised some crops had, for centuries, depended heavily on plunder for part of their sustenance.

  It was a way of life. From laughing talk around the fires, Brittany knew that though Cochise had kept his reservation band from marauding in the United States, they had pillaged Mexico, and other Apaches who were still raiding in the Arizona and New Mexico territories had refuged with the Chiricahuas or Chokonen and eaten government rations.

  Zach had maintained that it was a pity that the profiteering contractors weren’t the ones to get killed when outraged Indians broke loose on a trail of vengeance and plundering!

  Zach.

  Had he forgotten her? Tried at all to follow her? Brittany lay tense in the dark wickiup, waiting for the others to fall sound asleep. She clung to the thought of him, the aching memory of his kiss, to strengthen herself for what she was to attempt, but her palms were clammy and she was sick with dread.

  How could she hope to find her way back to the post, through canyons, mountains, and plains, when only that day she’d have been lost a few miles from camp if Sara hadn’t been in the lead? It would be great luck if she didn’t starve or die of thirst, greater luck if she managed to find the post or people who would help her.

  Even with a week’s start could she elude Kah-Tay? She was sure he would follow her. She’d learned something about stepping on rocks to leave no tracks and brushing out prints in sandy washes, but all Apaches were skilled trackers, and Kah-Tay was a renowned one.

  A desperate venture. And Indians weren’t her only worry. Rascally white gold seekers, whiskey sellers, and Mexican smugglers wouldn’t have Apache scruples about rape.

  Cold sweat dewed her body. She had to exert all her will not to thrash about restlessly. If living was her most important aim, then she’d be a fool not to stay here in a life she found to be in some ways more agreeable than that she’d led since Tristesse. As Kah-Tay’s wife and Jody’s stepmother, probably soon preoccupied with a baby of her own, she’d know a kind of happiness, no longer be tormented by memories of a proud auburn head and dark blue eyes.

  Still, in spite of her paralyzing fear of the trial ahead, she didn’t seriously think of staying. Though she was far from proud of being white, that was what she was. It seemed a betrayal of her dead parents, of the books she had loved and learned from, to let herself be absorbed by another people.

  And there was Zach.

  Time crawled, nerve-racking as a small spider creeping over a pinioned arm. Far away an owl hooted. Apaches were afraid of owls, believing the spirits of dead witches had passed into them. Brittany didn’t think that, but she pictured the bird swooping on its prey with soft-edged feathered wings that made no sound, and shivered. She might be pounced on just as suddenly in the journey ahead and have no more defense.

  Though the moon was full, inside it was dark, for with cooler weather the bottom thatch had been added and the outside of the wickiup was snugly covered with hides. Jody murmured in his dreaming. Brittany felt a pang at leaving him. Still, loved and secure in his father’s household, he didn’t need her anymore. Sara was breathing evenly and deep.

  There were no crying children. Since survival often depended on silence, the Apaches trained babies early not to cry, by hanging their cradleboards outside the camp till they stopped screaming and then lavishing them with attention. Pretty Eyes had sadly told Brittany how when some of the band had been hiding from a large force of soldiers, a little boy baby who was given to tantrums had been stifled to keep him from betraying their whereabouts.

  Surely an hour had passed. Stealthily Brittany got to her feet and picked up her blanket and clothes. She crept silently out of the wickiup, collected the water jug and burden basket, an
d made her way along the wash that led to her cache. Kah-Tay had picked the full moon for his raid in case it was necessary to travel at night, a thing Apaches disliked intensely. While Brittany was glad she could see, she kept to shadows in case some wakeful person might be outside.

  There was the great oak tree and beneath it the rock near which she’d dug her pit. Breathing more freely now that she was out of earshot of the camp, Brittany put her things down on the stone and slipped into the supple buckskins and high moccasins, gladly discarding her ragged dress.

  Clearing the top of the cache of mud, stones, and grass, she was puzzled as the brush layer seemed to go deeper and deeper. At last there could be no mistake.

  The rock-lined pit held only grass and brush. No containers of acorn or mesquite meal cakes, no mescal or jerky or dried berries. Not even the extra moccasin soles.

  Stunned, she knelt there.

  Trying to escape without food was death, but in her frustrated anger she might have started anyway if a tall, graceful figure hadn’t stepped out of shadows beyond the oak.

  “Blanca cannot sleep?”

  Rage at Sara gripped Brittany. Rising, she clenched her hands. “You—you let me plan, keep hiding little bits of food! Was it fun, laughing?”

  “I did not laugh.” Certainly the pale light showed no amusement on the regal face. “I hoped you would change your mind, decide to stay.”

  “Did you want to stay with the Mexicans?” said Brittany through her teeth.

  “That was different.” Sara paused at Brittany’s harsh laugh. “Sometimes, Blanca, you have been happy with us.”

  Unable to deny that, Brittany’s anger faded, but she had to fight back tears. “That is true, but I want to go back to my own people.”

  Sara pondered. “Is there a man?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has had you?” demanded Sara, frowning. “You are his woman?”

  “No. But I—I love him.”

  Pain creased Sara’s handsome face. “I loved a man once, but White Eyes killed him.” She sat down on the big rock, motioning Brittany to join her. “Blanca, listen. For three years I was a captive in the City of Mules. The family that bought me for a servant treated me well but watched me closely. I might never have gotten away if the daughter of the house, who became my friend, hadn’t helped me when she saw how I longed to be free. During a fiesta, she and I mingled with the crowd till it was dark and we could slip away from it. She gave me food, a knife, and blanket.” Sara gazed at the moon, remembering. “I don’t think Teresita was punished. Her parents loved her very much and she was their only child. I still make medicine for her, that she be well and blessed.”