McCrory's Lady

by Henke, Shirl Henke

  Colin resisted the temptation to laugh in Potkin's face. “White Mountain Reservation contains seventy-two hundred square miles. It'll take us almost the day to ride there. If we take the wagon supply route, it'll take an overnight camp before we reach the post.”

  “Out in the open, on reservation land?” Potkin asked with a tremor in his voice.

  “We could stay with some friends of mine—Nanchi and his wives. They're Tonto Apaches and very hospitable. I'm sure Sumi, his chief wife, would make us her famous stew out of deer's stomach filled with blood, chilies and wild onions.”

  Potkin quickly averted his horror-filled eyes and reconsidered the docile gray gelding that Ansel was holding. “Very well, I suppose I can manage—in the interest of saving time.”

  They rode for the better part of the morning, leaving the cooler high plateau area of Prescott and dropping into lower elevations. After crossing the Verde River with its rich grasslands, they headed southeast into what became an increasingly barren landscape with flat stretches of arid, sandy earth so dry the parched soil seemed to cry up to the heavens for rain. Scraggly greasewood and chollo grew in clumps beneath the merciless sun.

  “On my trip from Santa Fe I thought the country desolate, but this is far worse,” Potkin said, wiping the rivulets of sweat pouring from his brow.

  “This is real desert wasteland. As my foreman calls it, land so dry the trees would follow the dogs around for water...if there were any trees,” Colin replied.

  “It's ghastly.”

  Colin's expression was bleak. “That's precisely why the government let the Apaches have it. How long have you been with the bureau, Mr. Potkin?”

  The older man cast a suspicious glance at his guide. “Six years.”

  “Then you should remember the Apache relocations of 1875.” Obviously, Potkin did not. Colin decided to break the monotony of the ride by enlightening the investigator. “General Crook wasn't just a good Apache fighter. He'd had some real success with helping them to adapt to white ways—even got them to grow corn and hay for their livestock. Taught them to irrigate. Of course, the Tontos and Yavapais were living on the upper reaches of the Verde River then, above where my spread is located. They had plenty of water and good land there. But the Bureau of Indian Affairs seemed to have a more sympathetic ear for the Tucson merchants than for the Apaches—who had no one lobbying for them in Washington.

  “It seems the merchants and stockmen around Tucson didn't want to lose their lucrative contracts supplying beef, cornmeal and all other sorts of food and goods to the Indian Agency at Camp Verde. If the Indians could feed themselves...” Colin shrugged and looked at Potkin levelly. “Well, that not only meant the merchants lost money cheating Indians, but they'd also lose their even more lucrative contracts supplying the Army. You don't need a large standing army if you have pacified Indians with full bellies. So, fourteen hundred Apaches were taken off good land at Camp Verde and sent into this scrub country—to wait for government handouts.

  “The man who was your agent then was an idealistic young fool named Clum. He got the bright idea he could be the Apaches' savior if he could just herd them all together from around the territory. Washington was only too happy to oblige and issued orders to send all the diverse Apache bands to White Mountain—Coyoteros, Tontos with their allies the Yavapais, White Mountains, Cibeque, Chiricahua, Warm Springs, Mimbre, Pinal, Mogollon and Chilecon.” He paused. “Just to name some of them.”

  “But they're all Apaches. They speak the same language. I see no harm in the government's attempt to monitor them in one area,” Potkin said impatiently as he sopped a water-soaked cloth over his burning neck.

  Colin scowled as several of their armed escort grinned at Potkin's ignorance. “Let me make an analogy—just imagine taking the Irish, the Scots, the Welsh and the Cornish and placing them all on a barren patch of English soil. They can all speak the same language, but I haven't noticed in the past few hundred years that they like one another any the better for it.”

  Potkin harrumphed. “I suppose you have a point.”

  “Right now, there are over a dozen of these subgroups of Apaches all crowded onto this big brush pile—over five thousand men, women and children. At least they're here until another gold, silver or copper strike on reservation land makes it worth something to the white settlers. Then, the government will find some way to force the Apaches into an even worse place.”

  Potkin shivered as if trying to imagine a worse place. The farther south they rode, the more barren the landscape became.

  “The Apaches are mountain Indians,” Colin went on. “They can survive in the flat basins if there's enough water for crops and game, but white stockmen and farmers want that land. This is what's left. Even here, the Apache could survive if they were free to roam into the mountains and hunt. But they're tagged like dogs and confined to small enclosures with Lamp's reservation police checking on them to see they stay put. Some places on White Mountain Reservation can sustain livestock. Cattle, that is—the Apaches won't herd sheep like their hated enemies the Navaho. But even the cattle are too choice pickings to be left alone. I found some stolen reservation beef a couple of months ago. Looked like the US brand had been run over with WB.” He let the information about Barker's brand sink in.

  Potkin sputtered. “Do you have proof that Mr. Barker was involved in such thievery?”

  “I will,” Colin replied grimly. “In the meanwhile, I can show you how the Apaches really live—and die. Try to reconcile that with the supply requisitions and receipts that Caleb Lamp and Win Barker will show you.”

  Potkin looked highly skeptical. “Lamp may be in need of dismissal, but I find it very difficult to credit that a leading businessman of the territory such as Winslow Barker is involved in such chicanery.”

  Colin McCrory had never been a patient man, but he ground his teeth and reined in his temper. Perhaps the shock of seeing the living conditions around the supply posts would register with this vain, foolish man.

  Shortly after noon, they came upon the first small encampment of White Mountain Apaches. Their small brush wickiups sat sweltering under the blistering sun. A couple of scrawny horses, their ribs clearly outlined, stood listlessly staked to the barren yellow earth. A small cluster of scrub pines provided the only natural shade on the flat open terrain. Beneath the shaggy limbs several men sat, one laboriously sharpening a knife on a crude whetstone. They wore only breechclouts and leather moccasins. Their shaggy long hair was held back by thick rolled bands of what had once been brightly colored cloth, now faded and grimy. Some had blue tattoos on their chins and foreheads, adding to the savage mien created by watchful black eyes that studied the mounted and heavily armed whites.

  As the riders neared, women engaged in various camp chores paused and stared stoically at the intruders, their faces unreadable, their bodies covered from neck to feet with shapeless tunic blouses and full skirts of dingy cotton. Some of them also sported tattoos similar to those of the men, but their hair was either worn loosely or tied in back of their heads with heavy leather ornaments. A few carried papooses strapped to their backs on cradle boards. Others watched as naked children sat in the meager shade afforded by the brush wickiups. The younger ones played with crude toys. Many merely stared listlessly at the heat and dust around them. There was no laughter.

  Here and there a crude iron cook pot bubbled over an open fire. The aroma was not enticing. Several women labored carrying huge woven baskets supported on their backs by head straps. These were filled with water from a sluggish stream at the far end of the village.

  The Apaches' nominal leader, recognizing Colin, rose slowly on sinewy arthritic legs and walked toward the riders as McCrory dismounted. They conducted an extended conversation in the Athapaskan dialect, which sounded like guttural gibberish to Potkin, who remained mounted. Then, Colin turned and signaled for the investigator to join them, which the latter unwillingly did.

  “This is Bonito. He's the leader of t
his village.” Colin introduced Potkin, who stared at the metal tag suspended on a thin rawhide thong around the chief's scrawny neck.

  Bonito held out the tag. “VC,” he said in a raspy voice. “Agent Lamp give me when I bring my people to him. All have.” He gestured around the encampment. “Lamp promise cows, corn, blankets.”

  “Let him show you what the allotment was last month,” Colin said to Potkin, who followed the chief to one of the cook pots, filled with some noisome, grayish substance. “The cornmeal is so full of weevils and other bugs it's rotten. All they can do is boil it and eat it that way. They've seen no beef since one steer was given them to slaughter last spring. One steer for fifty people.”

  Bonito then ducked into the wickiup behind him and Colin held the door flap open for Potkin, who hesitated until Colin prodded, “You're an investigator, aren't you?”

  The older man stepped inside the small, hot shelter and nearly gagged on the smell of stale, sour sweat mixed with the potent aroma of tiswin, the native beer fermented from mescal. The remains of the last batch coated the bottom of a tin bucket sitting against the wall. A few rusty implements for digging, two woven baskets and some leather pouches sat beside the bucket. Across from them lay a pile of filthy blankets. The old man picked one up and thrust it at Potkin, who recoiled—until he encountered the solid wall of McCrory's body.

  “Feel the blanket.” There was steel in Colin's voice.

  “I’ll get lice,” Potkin hissed beneath his breath, but reluctantly complied, wanting nothing so much as to get out of the stultifying atmosphere before he suffocated. “It is thin,” he conceded, rubbing the threadbare cloth between his fingers gingerly.

  “You think it got that way from too much washing?” Colin asked wryly.

  They returned to the blinding sunlight and Potkin sucked a lungful of air gratefully.

  “You saw the condition of that wickiup—the food bags are empty, the tools they used to dig locust pods and mescal roots and to prepare acorns are rusted with disuse. There are no locusts or oaks close enough for them to harvest. They've dug out all the century plants in the vicinity. They're tagged and checked by Lamp's reservation police to see they don't leave their assigned area. There's no way to gather foods, cultivate crops or hunt game for meat and skins in this area. They've been made dependent on government rations. Rations that aren't being given out.”

  Colin spoke a few more words with Bonito, then they made their farewells. The whites rode away in a cloud of dust, which the Apaches ignored stoically, staring after them with fathomless black eyes.

  “Egad, I never saw such filth!” Potkin said, taking another cleansing breath of air.

  “You saw their water supply. It's barely enough for cooking and drinking. Apaches in the wild were clean Indians. All their religious ceremonies, even their daily rituals, called for cleansing the body to please the spirits. But small groups like this have become so demoralized with starvation and disease that they've given up. They're losing their culture and religion, not just their physical cleanliness.”

  “Have you spent time among the savage ones?”

  Potkin's question caught Colin off guard for an instant. His face was set grimly as he replied, “You could say that.”

  * * * *

  It was late evening when they rode into the San Carlos village and post. All were filthy and exhausted, none more so than Leonard Potkin, who regarded the scorched flatland dotted with sparse mesquite. The wickiups lay scattered around the large adobe building that housed the agency. Now that the sun had sunk below the horizon, the thin desert air was decidedly chill and a wind had come up. Even the dubious hospitality of Caleb Lamp looked inviting as the agent, flanked by his reservation police, came out to greet them.

  He was a spare, lanky man running to a slight bit of flab around his middle. Lamp stood almost six feet tall, his body was stoop shouldered and his beard-stubbled face was narrow and crafty. He studied the intruders with gleaming yellow eyes reflected in the light of the lanterns his police held up.

  “I thought I told you to stay off reservation land, McCrory,” he said angrily to Colin as the riders all dismounted.

  “I'm here as an escort...and guide for this gentleman. Caleb Lamp, meet Leonard Potkin, special investigator for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He's come all the way from Washington to have a look at the White Mountain Reservation.”

  A slow, cunning smile hovered at the corners of the agent's thin lips, then vanished. “I'm real sorry to have to spoil yer trip, Mr. Potkin, but I don't think it'd be safe to stay here overlong, nossir, I don’t.”

  “Really?” Potkin's bushy white eyebrows shot up disdainfully. “Why ever not? Have you lost control of the savages?”

  “Not at all, sir,” Lamp replied righteously. “It's just that there's been a smallpox outbreak—right here at the post village.”

  Colin cursed beneath his breath as Potkin's face took on a ghostlike hue in the lantern light.

  “Why wasn't word sent to me in Prescott?” Potkin demanded indignantly.

  Lamp put out his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn't know when you was coming, Mr. Potkin.”

  “Like hell you didn't,” Colin said through clenched teeth. One look at Potkin was enough to convince McCrory that the investigator would do precious little investigating. In fact, he looked so energized by fright that he probably could have ridden all the way back to Prescott by sunrise—if their horses could have withstood the hardship. So that's why Win Barker was content to let us ride here without any attempt to stop us.

  “It might be best if you spent the night here at the post and got an early start in the morning,” Lamp said with false solicitude. “I’ll have a couple of my Injun gals make up some beds.”

  “They haven't been exposed to the disease, have they?” Potkin croaked.

  Lamp shrugged. “Don't seem like it, but you musta seen how dirty them Apach are. They carry most all kinds of disease. Now, it don't make no never mind to me, ‘cause I had the smallpox when I was a tad; but if a man never did...and wasn't vaccinated...” He let his words trail away suggestively.

  “I reckon well take your graciously offered hospitality, Caleb,” Colin said sarcastically. “Maybe Mr. Potkin will have time while your cook is fixing us something to eat to take a look at the reservation's books.”

  “You stay out of this, McCrory,” Lamp said, edging closer to Colin with narrowed eyes, his fists balled tightly at his sides.

  “Er, there was some mention of discrepancies between supplies shipped and those received from Tucson. Perhaps, we could discuss it over something hot to drink,” Potkin said, shivering in the cold night wind.

  Lamp glared at McCrory, then shrugged at Potkin. “Let me see what I can do. First let's get some chow. Little Eyes, she's the squaw who cooks for me, made some beef stew. It's a mite chewy, but it'll fill ya up.”

  They ate the spicy, tough meat, palatable enough to Colin and his men. Potkin consumed his with a pained expression on his face, as if the act of chewing was loosening his teeth. After the meal, when McCrory again brought up the matter of the books, Potkin waved him off saying he was far too exhausted to make any sense out of such records.

  Colin awakened with the dawn, already feeling the heat that the day promised. If he were to get any work out of that old fool Potkin, he knew he needed to get at it quickly before the investigator fled the reservation. He swung his feet over the side of the short, narrow pallet, scarcely aware of his dismal accommodations. Potkin had been given a private room on the first floor next to Lamp's quarters. Colin and his men had been put up on the second floor of the big adobe post house. It was really an attic beneath a crude shingled roof which leaked during the rainy season and let in sun during the summer.

  The big room was bare of furniture except for the rude pallets lined up across the eastern side of one wall. The rest of the large space was filled with crates, sacks and boxes, all bearing U.S. government stamps—probably grain and other foodstuffs
being given out to the Apaches in tiny increments for as long as the goods could be stretched to last.

  Ignoring the snores of his sleeping companions, Colin pulled on his boots after carefully checking them for poisonous pests. He rose and strapped on his Peacemaker, picked up his Remington, and swung his saddlebags across his shoulder. As he climbed down the rickety ladder from the attic, the sounds of strident voices echoed across the open front room of the post. The area was huge and high-ceilinged.

  Scattered around the big room were sacks of cornmeal, barrels of flour, crates of tinned goods, and boxes of blankets and yard goods piled in no apparent order. Most of the dry goods crates and boxes were broken open to reveal their contents and entice the Apaches into buying on credit—ahead of their allotment allowances. Once enough cheap red calico and glass beads had been given away, then the food rations could again be shorted and the books seemingly balanced.

  But Colin's thoughts about Lamp's bookkeeping schemes were interrupted when he heard the familiar voice of Dr. Aaron Torres.

  “I've brought medical supplies but what I need—what I will have at once—is a real infirmary. There's plenty of room in this building.”

  “You're not bringing a bunch of sick savages into my quarters,” Lamp said flatly, stepping toward the slim, unarmed Torres with menace in his voice.

  “Aaron, I should've known you'd have a good reason to gallop off into the night, leaving Prescott without a word.”

  Torres's green eyes widened with surprise and pleasure. “Colin! What are you doing here? Did you get word about Eden?”

  The smile instantly left McCrory's face, and a vise seemed to squeeze his chest with dread. “What about Eden?”

  “She's fine—just fine. Nothing's happened to her. I expect word just didn't catch up to you yet—about her coming to the reservation to help me with the smallpox victims.”

  “No, I hadn't heard,” Colin said as air again rushed into his lungs. “She's here?”