Love in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  “I agree,” Mike said, lifting his glass. “Let’s drink a toast. May all our Christmases be as happy as this one.”

  “Here, here,” Sarah said.

  Katy smiled as she touched her glass to her mother’s, but inside she felt terribly guilty knowing that at this time next year she would be far from her mother’s home. She put the thought from her, not wanting anything to spoil the joy of the moment.

  Iron Wing caught the look in Katy’s eye and he reached out to squeeze her arm. It would be hard for her to leave Mesa Blanca. Would she be able to ride away without looking back when the time came?

  Late that night, when everyone was asleep, Iron Wing left the house and wandered aimlessly around the yard. The air was cold, but it felt good after the constant warmth of the house. The sky was black, splashed with stars, the night quiet. He felt a quick excitement in the pit of his stomach as he stared out into the darkness beyond the hacienda. Soon, he mused, soon he would go home, back to the plains, back to the hills and valleys where he had been born. It would be good to see Indian faces again, good to see the Sacred Hills, to sleep in a hide-covered lodge beneath a curly buffalo robe.

  He glanced down at his clothing and grimaced with distaste. It would be good to wear buckskins again, to be free of collars and cuffs and the other trappings of the white man.

  He thought of his son and thought how exciting it would be to teach the boy to ride and hunt and fight. To teach him the ways of the People, to sing the old songs and tell the old stories…

  When Katy woke the next morning, she was alone in the room. A quick panic seized her heart, but then she forced herself to relax. It was not yet spring, and even if it was, Iron Wing would not leave without her.

  Rising, she pulled on her robe and went in search of her husband.

  She found him sitting in the shadow of a tree. His clothes were rumpled, as if he had slept in them.

  “What are you doing out here?” Katy asked, sitting down beside him on the ground.

  “I spent the night out here,” Iron Wing admitted somewhat sheepishly. “Sometimes the walls of the house close in on me and I feel like I must get out or die.”

  Katy nodded. She had hoped that Iron Wing might grow to like living in Mesa Blanca, but she knew now it was a hope founded on air.

  Iron Wing gazed into the distance toward home. “You do not have to go with me, Ka-ty,” he said quietly. “I will understand if you want to stay here. I will come to visit you and the little one as often as I can.”

  “I want to go with you,” Katy said. “Please believe me.”

  Iron Wing smiled at her, pleased by her words, and Katy thought the comforts of civilization a small price to pay for the pleasure of her husband’s smile.

  It was on a day late in March that one of the vaqueros rode up to the hacienda with an Apache warrior in tow. The Indian had been wounded while trying to steal one of the Alvarez cows. Hands tied behind his back, he glared at the man who had captured him, then turned his slit-eyed stare toward Mike Sommers as Sommers stepped out on the veranda.

  “What’s going on, Rafael?” Mike asked.

  “Caught him trying to steal a cow. You want I should string him up?”

  “No,” Mike said, conscious of Iron Wing standing behind him. “Lock him up in the tack room. I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

  Sarah was not pleased to learn of the attempted theft. “He should be punished,” she said sternly. “He should be made an example of. We can’t let the Indians think we’re easy pickings.”

  “We can spare one cow,” Katy said. “We have hundreds.”

  “That’s not the point,” Sarah retorted. “We haven’t had any trouble with the Indians for some years, not since we…” She broke off abruptly, her cheeks flushing guiltily as she felt Iron Wing’s eyes on her face.

  “Since what, Mama?”

  “Since Montoya caught one of the Apache bucks making off with one of our cows,” Sommers said flatly. “Montoya hung the warrior and left the body as a warning to others.” Mike met Iron Wing’s accusing stare. “We haven’t had any trouble with the Apaches since.”

  “Will you hang this Apache, too?” Iron Wing asked.

  “Yes,” Mike answered, his gaze unwavering. “The Apaches know the penalty if they get caught on Alvarez land. It’s the only thing that’s kept us safe from attack. They know we have guns, and men who aren’t afraid to use them. They know our punishment is swift and final.”

  “You must do what you think is right,” Iron Wing said. “It is not for me to judge.”

  The sound of a door closing woke Katy. Sitting up in bed, she listened for footsteps. Hearing none, she knew it must be Iron Wing, for he moved soundlessly. Slipping out of bed, she drew on her robe and went downstairs. The front door was open, and she padded softly across the parlor and out onto the veranda. Iron Wing was a dark shadow moving across the yard.

  “I know where you’re going,” she mused to herself, and tiptoed down the stairs after her husband.

  She reached the tack room as Iron Wing was putting the key in the lock.

  “I know a girl who was whipped for doing that very thing,” Katy said, coming up behind Iron Wing.

  He whirled around, startled by her presence. “Ka-ty!”

  “What are you doing?” she asked. It was a foolish question, but one she could not resist.

  “I am going to set the Indian free,” he admitted sheepishly. “If you wish to whip me for it, the penalty is still ten lashes.”

  “If you’ll wait a few minutes, I’ll get him some food and a horse.”

  Moved beyond words, Iron Wing nodded. His eyes gleamed with love and admiration as he watched her walk back to the house.

  She returned ten minutes later with a parcel of food. Handing it to Iron Wing, she went to the corral and caught up a fine buckskin gelding.

  “You can turn him loose now,” Katy said. “I’m going back to bed.”

  Before she reached the house, she heard the quick tattoo of pounding hooves as the Apache rode out of the yard toward the hills.

  “Ka-ty?”

  She stopped, waiting for him to catch up to her.

  “You are quite a woman,” Iron Wing said, taking her in his arms.

  “Am I?” she teased, snuggling against him.

  “How did you know I would set him free?”

  “Because it’s what I would have done.”

  “And I whipped you for it,” Iron Wing said bitterly. The memory filled him with pain. Looking back, he wondered how he could ever have done it. Now, he would die before he let anyone, including himself, lay a hand on her. “No wonder you hated me.”

  “I don’t think I ever hated you,” Katy said, kissing his cheek. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”

  “It matters to me. I am sorry I hurt you.”

  “I know,” Katy said, touched by the remorse in his eyes.

  “Forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” She smiled up at him, her blue eyes shining with love and mischief. “I’m your woman, remember? You can do with me whatever you wish.”

  “And do you know what I wish?” he asked, smiling down at her.

  “Oh, yes, I know,” Katy said, and taking his hand, she led him back to the house and the privacy of their room.

  They were at breakfast the following morning when Pedro Montoya entered the dining room, his hat in his hand, a worried expression on his weathered face.

  “Pedro, what is it?” Sarah asked.

  “The Apache, señora. He is gone.”

  “Gone!” Sommers exclaimed.

  “Sí.”

  “How did he get out of the tack room? The door was locked, his hands and feet were bound behind his back.”

  Montoya shrugged. “Someone unlocked the door.”

  Sarah and Mike looked at each other; then, as one, they turned to look at Iron Wing.

  “I turned him loose,” Iron Wing admitted in answer to the unspoken question in their
eyes.

  “Why would you do such a thing?” Sarah demanded.

  “I could not stand by and watch him hanged,” Iron Wing said levelly. Too well, he remembered the rope that had once circled his own neck, the rough rasp of the hemp, the heavy knot under his jaw, the fear that turned his mouth to dust. “It is a bad way for an Indian to die.”

  “He should have thought of that before he tried to steal one of our cows,” Sommers remarked.

  “He has a wife and two little ones and no food in his lodge,” Iron Wing explained. “What would you have done in his place?”

  “Hell, I suppose I’d steal, too, if my family was hungry,” Mike allowed.

  “The Apaches are more than hungry. They are starving to death. There is no food on the reservation. Their children are dying.”

  Katy thought of her own child. How could she bear it if he were hungry, dying, and no one cared? “We have plenty of cattle,” she said. “Why don’t we send some to the Indians?”

  Mike shook his head. “No. We can’t interfere with the reservation Indians.”

  “There are Indians living off the reservation,” Iron Wing remarked. “We could take the cattle to them. They will see that some of the meat finds its way to the reservation.”

  “Yes, we could do that,” Mike agreed, warming to the idea. “What do you think, Sarah?”

  “I think we’re asking for trouble.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Montoya, have the men round up fifty head of our best cattle. Iron Wing, will you go with us?”

  “Yes, I will go.”

  “I’m going, too,” Katy said, jumping to her feet.

  “No,” Iron Wing said curtly. “You must stay here, with John.”

  “Mother can watch him, can’t you, Mama?”

  “Don’t get me involved in your family squabbles,” Sarah said, rising from the table. “You and Iron Wing decide what you’re going to do, and then let me know. I’ll be in my office.”

  “Why can’t I go?” Katy demanded. “I can ride. And we won’t be gone long.”

  “I think he’s right, Katy,” Sommers said. “It might be best if you stay home.”

  Katy looked up at Iron Wing, her eyes wide, her lower lip quivering just a little. “Please let me go. I don’t want to stay here without you, not even for a day.”

  Iron Wing looked over Katy’s head to where Mike stood.

  “Don’t look at me for help,” Sommers said, shaking his head. “She’s your woman. Your problem.”

  “I cannot tell her no when she looks at me like that,” Iron Wing muttered helplessly.

  “I was afraid of that,” Mike said. “I’ll go tell Sarah that Katy is coming with us. We’ll leave in an hour.”

  Driving a herd of cattle was dusty work, but Katy found it thrilling to be on the trail with Iron Wing and Mike. They rode ahead of the herd where the dust wasn’t so bad, leaving Montoya and four vaqueros to ride flank and drag. The day was cold and cloudy, the air brisk. It would take the better part of the day to reach the Apache village. They would drop off the herd, spend the night on the trail, and return home by midafternoon.

  It had been a long time since Katy had spent so many hours in the saddle, but she dared not complain of being tired. She had wanted to come, and she was here. Still, she was glad when Mike called for a rest. Dismounting, they ate a quick meal of cold biscuits and beans washed down with water. It was not the most appetizing food in the world, but she ate it without complaint.

  “How do you think the Indians will react when they see us?” Mike asked when they were in the saddle again.

  Iron Wing shrugged. “The Apache are a proud warrior people. They do not care for charity. But I think they will be glad to see us.”

  “I only hope they honor our white flag,” Mike muttered drily. “I’d hate to get killed trying to do a good deed.”

  It was late afternoon when they reached the Apache village. Katy was appalled at what she saw. The Apache wickiups were crude, the camp was quiet. No dogs barked as they rode into the village, no children played in front of the Indian lodges. A handful of warriors dressed in cheap cotton shirts and ragged leggings came to meet them. The men were terribly thin, their eyes dull, their faces flat.

  “What do you want here?” one of the warriors asked in sign language. He held a rifle in the crook of his arm.

  “We have brought you food,” Iron Wing answered, also in sign language. “Your brother, Crooked Leg, told me of your need for meat. My wife’s people have many fat cattle. We have brought you some of them as a gift of friendship. We ask only that you send meat to the reservation so that Crooked Leg and his people may have food in their lodges.”

  “We do not want the white man’s charity,” the Apache said haughtily, but his eyes belied his words. Fifty head of cattle would feed his people for a long time.

  “It is not charity,” Iron Wing said. “I am Crooked Leg’s friend. I cannot take the cattle to the reservation. I ask that you do it for me. In the spring, when the hunting is good, perhaps you will kill more meat than you need. Perhaps you will bring me some venison and a deer hide, as a gift from one friend to another.”

  “Perhaps,” the warrior said. “Stay, eat with us.”

  Iron Wing dismounted and motioned for Katy and Mike to do the same.

  “I am called Yellow Deer,” the warrior said.

  “I am Iron Wing. This is my wife, and my father-in-law, Michael Sommers.”

  Yellow Deer nodded his head in greeting.

  Iron Wing put his arm around Katy’s shoulders. He knew she did not want to stay, but to refuse would be an insult.

  The Apaches killed one of the cows on the spot. Katy watched as the women emerged from their wickiups to skin the carcass. A hindquarter was skewered and hung over a low flame.

  The meat was barely cooked when the Apaches tore into it. They ate ravenously, the juice running out of their mouths and down their chins.

  Knowing it would be impolite to refuse, Katy forced herself to eat a slice of the blood-red meat. She slid a glance at Mike and saw that he, too, was having trouble swallowing the hunk of meat that had been handed to him. Only Iron Wing asked for more.

  The arrival of so much meat was a cause for celebration. When everyone in the village had eaten their fill, they began to dance. Almost, Katy thought, it was like being back in the Dakotas with the Cheyenne.

  She gazed at the Indians around her, careful not to stare at anyone too long. For the most part, the Indian men wore cotton shirts, buckskin leggings, and knee-high moccasins. The women were dressed in brightly colored blouses and calico skirts. There was little resemblance between the Apache and the Cheyenne. The Apache were short of stature, their faces broad and flat. The Cheyenne were a much more handsome people, Katy thought, glancing at Iron Wing. He was tall and lean, his features finely chiseled.

  During a lull in the festivities, Yellow Deer hunkered down on his heels beside Iron Wing.

  “You will stay the night,” the Apache said, clapping Iron Wing on the shoulder in a friendly gesture. “My lodge will be yours. I will share my brother’s wickiup.”

  “You are very kind,” Iron Wing said. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

  “I don’t want to stay here overnight,” Katy whispered as Yellow Deer led them to his wickiup later that night.

  “We will stay,” Iron Wing said firmly. “Do not be afraid. I will keep watch while you sleep.”

  The wickiup was a round, brush-covered dwelling with a domed roof. It was roomy inside, though neither Iron Wing or Mike could stand upright, not even in the center.

  “Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable,” Mike said, stretching out on a pile of blankets. “If you get tired, wake me up.”

  Iron Wing nodded, but he knew he would not sleep this night.

  With a sigh of resignation, Katy settled down across the way from Mike, certain she would never be able to sleep. Why had she come here? These were the same Indians who had killed her father, w
ho had killed Robert. The same Indians who had attacked the stagecoach carrying her to the convent. Closing her eyes, she tried to sleep, but instead she saw images of the Apaches as they gulped down chunks of nearly raw beef. She saw the children, scrawny and listless. The women, thin and without hope. The men, dull-eyed, yet still proud, still warriors. What if they attacked them while they slept? These were not reservation Indians, but wild Apaches. Once they had been the most feared tribe in the Southwest. Their atrocities far surpassed those of any other tribe… Opening her eyes, she saw Iron Wing sitting beside the entrance to the wickiup and her fears dissolved. He would protect her.

  Feeling Katy’s gaze, Iron Wing turned to face her. “Go to sleep,” he said quietly. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  Obediently, Katy closed her eyes again. Moments later, she was asleep.

  They left early the next morning. Katy was glad to be leaving. The village, the people, she found it all depressing. And yet, some of the listlessness seemed to have been lifted from the Indians. Perhaps, with food enough to last, they would rouse themselves from their lethargy. Perhaps the children would laugh again.

  As they rode out of the village, Montoya and the Alvarez vaqueros jogged up behind them. Montoya and his men had spent the night with the herd.

  “Everything all right?” Mike asked, reining up beside Montoya.

  “Sí. Already, the Indians have taken half the herd to the reservation.”

  Sommers nodded. The remainder of the cattle were grazing on the sparse grass behind the village, guarded by several young braves.

  “I’m glad we were able to help,” Katy said.

  “Yeah,” Mike drawled. “I feel pretty good about it myself. Maybe we can look into furnishing beef for the reservation from now on. It’s close to the ranch. We’d know if the cattle were getting to the Indians.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea!” Katy said enthusiastically.

  “I’ll discuss it with your mother when we get home,” Mike promised. “She probably won’t like the idea at first, but I think she’ll come around.”

  Pedro Montoya snorted derisively. You could not trust Apaches. Feed them, let them get strong again, and they would soon be on the warpath again.