Apache Flame

by Madeline Baker

  Mitch nodded. “I understand.”

  Elk Chaser clapped him on the shoulder, then mounted his horse and followed the others.

  Muttering an oath, Mitch knelt beside the man and broke off the shafts of both arrows so that only a few inches remained protruding from the wounds, then he lifted the unconscious man and laid him face-down over the saddle. Vaulting onto the horse’s rump, he reached forward and picked up the reins. Riding behind the saddle was not the most comfortable place to ride, to be sure, but it beat the hell out of walking.

  * * * * *

  It was late afternoon when they reached the entrance to the rancheria. The wounded man hadn’t regained consciousness but, remembering Elk Chaser’s stern admonition, Mitch removed his headband and used it to blindfold the man.

  When he reached the top of the narrow trail, he called to the warriors guarding the entrance, then made his way into the encampment.

  Everyone he passed turned to stare at the body draped over the saddle, only to turn away when they saw it was not one of their own.

  Mitch found his mother sitting in the shade in front of her lodge, sewing. She looked up, astonishment flickering in her eyes, when she saw the man sprawled face down across his saddle.

  “He needs help,” Mitch said. Dismounting, he slung the unconscious man over his shoulder and carried him into his mother’s lodge.

  White Robe looked after Mitch’s horse, then entered the lodge. She quickly stirred the coals in the fire and tossed in a handful of sweet grass to purify the air.

  Knowing he would only be in the way, Mitch stood back while his mother examined the wounds.

  “Come,” she said. “You must hold him down while I remove the arrows.”

  Mitch knelt in front of the man, his hands firmly planted on the man’s shoulders, while his mother straddled the man’s legs. She removed the arrow in his arm first, electing to push it all the way through rather than try to draw it out. She quickly washed the wound, packed the holes with green tree moss, bound the arm in a strip of cotton cloth.

  The arrow in the man’s back had to be cut out. Even unconscious, the man thrashed and moaned as she worked the head of the arrow from his back. When the arrowhead had been removed, she washed and bandaged the wound as she had the other one, then stood up.

  “I will make broth. He will need lots of liquid to replace the blood he has lost. If he lives.”

  “Ashoge, Shi ma,” Mitch said. Rising, he gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. Thank you, my mother.

  Leaving the lodge, Mitch walked down to the river. Squatting on his heels, he watched the water splash and tumble over the rocks, his thoughts on the white man. Who was he? What was he doing out here? He looked vaguely familiar. Someone he’d seen on the streets of Canyon Creek, maybe.

  He grunted softly, the thought of Canyon Creek bringing Alisha quickly to mind. He should have taken the time to tell her goodbye, he mused ruefully. Wished her well in her forthcoming marriage.

  Picking up a rock, he hurled it into the river, watching the ripples spread out in ever-widening circles. He should have just grabbed her and run. Let her scream and holler all she wanted about promises and honor. She had promised to marry him long before she became engaged to that pretty boy Smithfield. What did Smithfield know about her? Had he been the one to hold Alisha and comfort her when her mother died? Had he been the one Alisha had always turned to for comfort? Had Smithfield taught her to swim, watched her grow from a little girl into a beautiful young woman? Dammit, why hadn’t he stayed and fought for her? He had never given up on anything he wanted in his life. He wanted Alisha Faraday and by damn, he was going to go back and fight for her. When the wounded man could travel, he would take him to Canyon Creek, and then he’d find Alisha and make her admit the truth—that she loved him, not Smithfield.

  He grinned, pleased with the thought of carrying her away. He should have done it long ago. She could protest all she wanted, he thought, but he would make her happy. She would forget about Smithfield soon enough. He’d see to that.

  He imagined what it would be like to spend the night with Alisha at his side, to see her face first thing in the morning, hear her whisper his name in the quiet of the night. Mitchy. No one else had ever called him that. He had always claimed he hated it but the truth was, he had always loved it. And her.

  * * * * *

  The stranger was awake when Mitch entered the wickiup.

  “Obliged to ya,” the man said as he struggled to sit up. He groaned softly. “Damned Comanch. What the hell was they doin’ so far from home anyways.” He offered Mitch his hand. “Red Clements.”

  Mitch shook the man’s hand. “Mitch Garret.” He sat down. “Sorry about your friend.”

  “My friend!” Clements exclaimed. A look of horror passed over his face. “The woman! Lord in heaven, they got the woman.”

  Mitch felt a sudden sense of trepidation. “What woman?”

  “I was guidin’ a pretty lil’ gal. She paid me fifty bucks to bring her to the ‘Paches.” Clements threw off the blanket and tried to stand up. He swore as he fell back on the blankets. “I’ve got to go after her.”

  “You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

  “Got to. Damn!”

  “Who was she?” Mitch asked, his stomach clenching. “This woman?”

  “Name was Faraday. Alisha Faraday.”

  Mitch stared at the man. What reason could Alisha have for wanting to come here? She wouldn’t have come looking for him, even if she had known he was here.

  “Why?” Mitch asked. “What business did she have here?”

  “Said she was lookin’ for someone.”

  Mitch stood up, his mind whirling. Alisha had been captured by the Comanche! Damn. He had to go after her. Now.

  Mitch glanced over his shoulder as his mother entered the lodge carrying a load of wood. “Shi ma, would you please pack some food for me?”

  “He was guiding a woman here,” Mitch explained quickly. “I’m going after her. There’s no time to explain now. Please, just pack me enough food for a couple of days.”

  “You must wait,” White Robe said. “Wait for Elk Chaser. He will know what to do.”

  Mitch paced the lodge. “I can’t wait!” Alisha, in the hands of the Comanche. What would they do to her? If she was still alive, she would be terrified. If… He pounded his fist into his palm. He couldn’t think like that. He had to believe she was still alive or he’d go insane. Oh, Lord, Alisha… Please let her be all right. “I’ve got to go after her.”

  “Your ma’s right, boy. You won’t be no help to that gal iffen you get yourself kilt trying to save her.”

  “Elk Chaser won’t be back for a couple of days. I can’t wait that long.” Mitch turned to his mother. “Do you think any of the other men would go with me?”

  “Why are you so concerned for this woman?” White Robe asked.

  “It’s Alisha. You remember her? The preacher’s daughter.”

  “Ah,” White Robe said, a knowing look in her eye. “Yes, I remember her.”

  “You know her?” Clements asked. “Was she coming here to see you?”

  Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think so. There’s no way she would have known I was here.”

  White Robe frowned. “Why else would she come here?”

  “I don’t know.” Mitch looked at Clements. “Did she tell you why she wanted to come here?”

  “Claimed she had family here.”

  “Family?” Mitch frowned. “What family?”

  “She didn’t say. I thought it was passing strange that a lady like her would have kin living with the ‘Pache…” Clements looked up at White Robe. “No offense meant, missus.”

  White Robe nodded.

  Clements took a deep breath. “Give me a few minutes to pull myself together, Garret, and I’ll side ya.”

  “Ciye…”

  “I’ve got to go, Shi ma.” He had to go after Alisha now, had to feel like he was doing something. He couldn
’t just sit and wait. He’d go crazy. Even though he knew striking out on his own was a damn fool thing to do, he couldn’t wait for Elk Chaser to return, couldn’t wait until Clements was able to travel. He was a fair tracker, and he knew the general direction the Comanches were headed. And there was a chance, however slim, that one man, acting alone, would be more effective than a dozen warriors.

  “Tell Elk Chaser where I’ve gone,” Mitch said.

  “Ciye, wait.” White Robe stuffed several chunks of jerky and a dozen ashcakes in a buckskin bag and thrust it into his hands, along with a canteen that was stamped with the insignia of the U.S. Cavalry.

  “Ashoge, shi ma.” He hugged his mother, grabbed his weapons, and left the lodge.

  It only took a few minutes to cut his horse out of the herd, a couple more to saddle the bay. And then he was riding southeast, toward the land of the Comanche.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fear. It was the dampness on her palms, the cold sweat trickling down her spine, the sick feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. She stared at the rawhide thong that bound her wrists together. Why hadn’t she listened to Roger when he told her to stay home? If she hadn’t insisted on making this journey, Red Clements would still be alive. Regret filled her heart when she thought of Mr. Clements’ families. She choked back a sob. His wives and children would never know what had happened to him. Her friends would never know what had happened to her.

  She glanced at the warriors riding on either side of her. What a ninny she had been. She had lived her whole life in the Southwest. She knew how dangerous the Indians were. She had read numerous accounts of stagecoaches and outlying ranches being attacked by marauding Indians. The Apaches had been on the warpath for the last seven years, ever since Cochise had been accused of kidnapping a local rancher’s child and stealing the rancher’s stock.

  She had only been sixteen at the time. She remembered how upset Mitch had been when the local paper described the incident, calling Cochise a murdering savage. Though Mitch had never met Cochise, he had a great respect for the Apache chief. Mitch had told her that in an attempt to prove his innocence, Cochise had met with an Army officer named Lieutenant Bascomb a short distance from the Overland Mail Station. Cochise had proclaimed his innocence and offered to try to find out who had kidnapped the boy and, if possible, to return both the boy and the cattle. Bascomb had informed Cochise that he and those with him would be held as hostages until the boy was returned to his family. Cochise had drawn his knife and slashed his way out of the tent. Returning to the Apache stronghold, he quickly gathered a bunch of warriors and returned to the station where the meeting with Bascomb had been held and had taken the hostler, a driver and a third man captive. Cochise had then offered to trade his hostages for his own people. Bascomb refused to make the exchange unless the boy was also returned. Cochise had again declared he knew nothing of the boy’s whereabouts and when Bascomb refused to believe him, Cochise left the station. He returned two days later, his face painted for war, and leading one of the hostages. The hostage pleaded with the lieutenant, begging Bascomb to free Cochise’s people, but Bascomb refused. Angered by the lieutenant’s refusal, Cochise had dragged his prisoner to death.

  In retaliation, Bascomb hanged three of Cochise’s relatives. Later, it had been proven that Cochise and his Apaches had been innocent.

  Alisha wiped the sweat from her brow. She had known the journey to Apache Pass would be dangerous, but, in the excitement of learning that her son was alive, she had foolishly disregarded it. And now she was about to pay the ultimate price for her foolishness. She didn’t know if these Indians were Apaches or not, but it made no difference.

  She gazed into the distance. There was little to see but desert and sage and cactus, a bold blue sky, a blazing sun.

  She wondered how long it would take for the Indians to reach their village, and what would happen to her when they arrived. Would they rape her? Torture her? Scalp her? She had read of the atrocities committed by the Indians but, safe and secure in her sheltered life, it had all seemed distant and unreal, something that happened to other people. Until now.

  She glanced at the Indians beside her again, and thought of Mitch. He was half Apache. If he had been raised by his mother’s people instead of by his father, he would have been a warrior, like these men, clad in buckskins and feathers, and they would have been enemies. She thought of her son, being raised by the Apache. Clements had said that a boy of four was already well on his way to being a warrior. She tried to imagine her son as a grown man, a warrior on the warpath, attacking innocent women and children, burning ranches, stealing cattle.

  Lost in thought, it took her a minute to realize the Indians had stopped. She was surprised to see that the sun was slipping below the horizon. The warriors dismounted and began setting up camp. One of the men dragged her off the back of her horse and gave her a push. She stumbled forward, tripped on a rock, and fell. With her hands bound, she was unable to break her fall. She cried out as her head struck the ground.

  With a look of disgust, the warrior who had pushed her grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her into a sitting position. Lifting a waterskin from the back of his horse, he took a long swallow, then thrust the container into her hands.

  “Hibitu!” he said, and gestured for her to drink.

  “Tobo? Ihupiitu!”

  She gasped, water trickling down her chin, when he jerked the waterskin from her hands.

  It took only a few minutes for the Indians to set up their night camp and soon a small fire brightened the gathering dusk. The men sat around the fire, talking and laughing while they ate. The warrior who had offered her a drink thrust a hunk of dried meat into her hands, then went to sit with the others.

  Fear did not make for a hearty appetite, neither did the food she had been offered, but she forced herself to eat. Mitch had once told her that no matter what the circumstances, survival must always be the first order of business. She would keep up her strength just in case she found an opportunity, however unlikely that seemed at the moment, to escape.

  An hour later, the warriors rolled up in their blankets and went to sleep, save for two who stood cloaked in the shadows of the night, keeping watch.

  Alisha shivered as a cool evening breeze blew over the land. The Indians had offered her food and drink, but no blanket to turn away the cold. Huddled into a ball, her bound hands numb, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But sleep would not come. Morbid thoughts and fears of the fate that awaited her when the Indians reached their destination crowded her mind, keeping sleep at bay.

  How slowly time passed when one was cold and lonely and afraid.

  To take her mind from her troubles, she thought about Mitch. He had always been there to save her when she got into trouble in the past, she mused. Of course, most of the time, he had been the one who got her into trouble in the first place, like the time they had gone hiking in the foothills. She had been about ten at the time. It had been a beautiful warm summer day. Mitch had fallen a little behind her because she had run ahead to gather a bunch of flowers growing wild on the hillside.

  Humming softly, she bent down to reach for a bright yellow bloom growing between two small rocks.

  “‘Lisha! Don’t move!”

  She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at Mitch, wondering what was wrong. And then she heard the unmistakable warning rattle. Looking down, she saw the snake coiled less than a foot away. She stared at the diamond-shaped head, the forked tongue darting in and out, the tail with its ugly rattles. Her first instinct was to run, screaming, down the hill.

  “Don’t move, ‘Lisha.” Mitchy’s voice was soft and low this time, soothing. “Don’t move. He’s just as afraid of you as you are of him.”

  Somehow she doubted that. The snake didn’t look scared, only mean and ugly, with its beady black eyes and scaly skin.

  “Listen to me, ‘Lisha. I want you to back up, very slowly “

  She shook her head, afraid to move, a
fraid to breathe. She had once seen a trapper who had been snakebit. He had staggered into town, his leg all black and swollen. The doctor had cut off the man’s leg in an attempt to save his life, but the poor man had died anyway.

  “‘Lisha. ‘Lisha.”

  She looked into Mitchy’s eyes and some of her fear melted away.

  “Trust me, ‘Lisha. I’ll get you out of there. One step at a time,” he said. “Slowly. Now.”

  Heart pounding with fear, certain the snake would strike the minute she moved, she took a small step backward.

  The snake’s tongue darted in and out, testing the air.

  She took another small step backward, dislodging a rock that rolled down the hill.

  The snake’s tail vibrated faster, the whir of its rattles sounding like dry bones rattling in a tin cup in the stillness that seemed to have settled around her.

  “It’s all right. Come on, ‘Lisha. Come here to me.”

  Slowly, small step by small step, she followed the sound of Mitchy’s voice. He would save her. Heart hammering in her breast, she backed away from the snake. Weak with relief, she fell into Mitchy’s arms…

  How she longed to be in his arms now, she thought, to tell him that she loved him, that the child born of their love for one another was alive and living with the Apaches.

  She looked up at the night sky. Never had she felt so alone, and yet she wasn’t alone.

  Please, God, please help me. I know You’re up there. I know You can hear me. Please, God, please help me get out of this mess so I can find my son. And please bless Mitchy. I love him so much…

  A sense of peace filled her heart. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and slept.

  * * * * *

  Mitch sat cross-legged on the ground, gnawing on a piece of jerky. He’d ridden back to the place where he’d found Clements and picked up the trail of the Indians. He wasn’t the world’s best tracker, but the Comanches weren’t making any effort to hide their trail and he’d had little trouble following them until darkness swallowed up their tracks, forcing him to stop for the night.