White Apache 7

by David Robbins

  “Lickoyee-shis-inday!” Ponce called out.

  “What is it?”

  “The ravine! The ravine!”

  Clay Taggart tensed. It had been a while since last they were there and he had plumb forgotten about the sheer ravine erosion had carved out of the valley floor not far from the stream. The sides were sixty feet high or better and too sheer for a mountain goat to scale. Worse, boulders dotted the bottom.

  Raising his voice, he yelled in Spanish, “Juanita! Stop! There is great danger!”

  “What danger?” Maria cried. “What are you talking about?”

  They all heard the chilling scream. A piercing, wavering note echoed to the heavens, climbing in volume as if the screamer were scaling the stars. At the pinnacle of its power, the scream tapered into a ghastly lingering warble which was punctuated by a dull thud loud enough to be heard dozens of yards away.

  Clay Taggart reached the edge of the ravine first. He did not need to climb down to see if Juanita Mendez were still alive. Her grotesquely twisted form lay askew on a boulder in a miserable crumpled heap.

  Maria Mendez came to the brink, took one look, and wailed. Sinking to her knees, she pummeled the ground with her fists as tears gushed. “No! No! Not my sister! Please, no!”

  Ponce had nothing to say. He was sorry the female had died, but it was not his fault. She had brought the grisly end on herself. He would have treated her decently if only she had behaved.

  Somewhere in the forest a coyote answered Maria’s wails.

  Eight

  It had puzzled Wes Cody greatly when his grandson told him that Iron Eyes lived in a shack near Fort Bowie. The Navajo had always been a proud man and. refused to have anything to do with the whites except when serving as a scout. The rest of the time, Iron Eyes had lived with his family off in Navajo country.

  And for the warrior to live in a shack was another puzzlement. Navajos liked to live in hogans, a conical type of dwelling peculiar to the tribe, just like the Apaches favored wickiups and the Plains Indians were fond of teepees.

  So when Cody finally set eyes on the place the warrior was calling home nowadays, Cody was more than shocked. He told himself that he should have known something was off kilter. He should have expected the worst.

  The so-called shack was no more than a lowly hovel, a collection of clapboards and cardboard strung together with chicken wire and a few rusty nails. It wasn’t fit for chickens to live in, let alone a human being.

  Cody couldn’t understand why his old friend would stoop to live in such a dump until he drew rein beside a scraggly mule and saw the many empty bottles which littered the ground in front of the crooked, cracked door. “Oh, hell,” he said to no one in particular, and dismounted.

  Timothy Cody started to do the same but the scout stopped him with a gesture.

  “I want to talk to him by my lonesome. Ren and you stay out here and mind the horses.” Cody glanced eastward at the serrated ridge which separated the dry valley in which the shack had been built from the high walls of Fort Bowie. “And keep your eyes skinned for boys in blue. If they see the pack horses, they’re bound to ask questions. And if they figure out that were headed into the reservation, they’ll confiscate all our supplies and send us packin’.”

  “Whatever you want, Gramps,” Tim said. He had gone to too much effort in getting the whole thing organized to let them be thwarted when he was so close to having his pockets crammed with greenbacks. The thought of all that money made him giddy at times and had given him quite a few sleepless nights.

  “Don’t you fret, pard,” Ren Starky threw in. “I won’t let any soldiers make off with our stuff.”

  Cody wagged a finger. “No gunplay, Ren. Not with the army. They’d hound you from here to eternity. And you’re a little too long in the britches to become a wanted man.”

  The gambler smirked. “Hell, I’m not half as old as you, you mangy coot. And I doubt I’ll live for eternity. But I’ll sheathe my claws if a patrol happens by. Just don’t let me hear you gripe later when we’re sitting in Tucson, twiddling our thumbs.”

  Cody faced the shack. It was odd, he reflected, that Iron Eye had not come out to greet them. They’d made enough noise, and the warrior had always been able to hear a rock drop from a mile off. Well, close to it, anyways.

  The scout stepped to the door and rapped once. There was no answer so he took it on himself to fling the door wide and promptly regretted it. An awful stench struck him, almost as bad as the stink of blood in Starky’s room, only this time it was the smell of alcohol and sweat and something worse, something which churned his stomach and made him want to add to the puddles on the bare ground which served as the floor.

  “Dear Lord,” Cody breathed, and held that breath.

  Iron Eyes, once the best Indian scout in the Fifth Cavalry, once a noted Navajo warrior widely respected by all his people, lay on his left side, curled up, mouth agape like that of a fish out of water, spittle dribbling from the corner. Clutched in his hands as if it were the Holy Grail was another empty whiskey bottle.

  Cody was careful to leave the door propped wide. Going in, he gripped the Navajo’s ankles and dragged the warrior out into the sunlight. Iron Eyes slumbered on, too far gone to notice anything short of the end of the world. Cody stared at him a moment, downcast. “How could you?” he asked softly.

  Shaking himself, Cody strode to his horse, took a water skin, and without ceremony upended it above the warrior’s face, pouring it right into the Navajo’s gaping mouth.

  Iron Eyes shot up as if he had been jabbed with a red hot branding iron. He yelped, then sputtered and flailed feebly at the stream. A string of Navajo burst from him, replaced by English a few moments later. “Stop! Stop! You drown me!”

  Cody stopped pouring. “That’s the general idea, you worthless varmint. Here I come to pay my respects for the first time in years, and what do I find? The great Iron Eyes alkalized to the gills and livin’ in a pigsty. Why, for two bits I’d drag you back to your people so they can see what you’ve made of yourself.”

  The Navajo was momentarily speechless. His seamed face had a hard, leathery look, and his hair, once long and black, had thinned and turned a light shade of gray. “Cody!” he exclaimed in genuine joy. Dropping the bottle, he rose on unsteady legs. His soiled buckskins were half soaked but he did not appear to notice. “Good friend! My heart is glad! I never thought to see you again!”

  The scout beamed and clapped the warrior on the shoulders. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he agreed, and bobbed his head at Timothy. “But didn’t my grandson here pay you a visit and tell you about the scheme he cooked up?”

  Iron Eyes looked and had to squint. His eyes were not what they had once been, and nowadays the bright glare of the sun gave him problems. He saw the face of the young white man as if it were swimming in golden liquid. “I seem to remember him. But I do not know if it was in a dream or if I was awake.”

  “The damned liquor,” Cody said, kicking the bottle. It skidded into another and both shattered. “How the hell could you stoop so low?”

  “I—” Iron Eyes stuttered and stopped. He was too choked up to tell of the years of loneliness following the death of his wife. Nor did he see any need to bring up the war between The People and the Army which had ended in disaster for The People less than ten winters past. He knew that Cody knew, just as he knew the scout had heard about the Long Walk, about the many hundreds who had died when they were forced onto a reservation far to the southeast. Only recently had The People been allowed to return to their homeland. But Iron Eyes could not stand to be there, could not stand to see the scarred land and be reminded day in and day out of the death of the Navajo dream.

  Cody saw moisture rim the warrior’s eyes and impulsively gave Iron Eyes a hug. He could guess what the warrior was thinking about, and he was upset at himself for rubbing his old friend’s nose in it. “I am more sorry than words can say,” he declared, feeling all choked up inside. “I tried to help
but it didn’t do any good.”

  Iron Eyes stepped back and brushed off a tear. “Look at me. I am a child in an old man’s body.” He mustered a smile. “I did not know that you tried. I thought all my friends had turned their backs on me.”

  “Never,” Cody said. “When I heard that Carson had been picked to corral your tribe, I offered to parley on behalf of the government. Your people had always treated me square, and it was the least I could do.” His lips pinched together. “But that peacock Carson wouldn’t listen. His orders didn’t call for talk, just action. I was told to mind my own business.” He spat in the dust. “Between you and me, I don’t think Kit had much choice. The government wanted to make an example of the Navajos and they weren’t about to let an old bastard like me stand in their way.”

  Iron Eyes sighed and gazed out over the bleak terrain. “We have outlived our time, my friend. The world has passed us by.”

  “Buffalo chips,” Cody scoffed. “As long as a person is alive, they count for somethin. Don’t count yourself out until you’ve breathed your last.” His own gaze strayed to the azure sky. “Even then it’s not over. The Good Book says that there’s a place up yonder for us after we die.”

  The Navajo remembered the big book Cody had carried in his saddlebags on their campaigns. “You still believe that this life is not the end?” The scout nodded. “The People, too, believe in another life. I hope they are right.” Iron Eyes indicated the shack. “I do not mind admitting that I have grown very tired of this one.”

  Cody smiled. “Then it’s good my grandson came up with his plan when he did. Climb on that mule of yours and let’s go earn us a small fortune.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t recollect the talk you had with Tim?” Cody said. “About going after White Apache? About laying our hands on that ten thousand dollar bounty money?”

  The warrior tried to recall but the inside of his mind was like a valley on a foggy day. He could not penetrate very far. Still, the chance to be with his old friend again was not to be missed. And the mention of money reminded him that whiskey cost a lot and he was flat broke. “I will come,” he announced, grinning. “It will be like the old days. We will show the renegades why our names were once widely feared. We will show the army and everyone that we are men, not dogs to be cast away when we are no longer of any use.”

  Timothy Cody chuckled. Everything had worked out just as he had planned, and he could almost feel that money bulging in his pockets. Then he happened to glance at Ren Starky and was disturbed by the severe expression the man wore. “Cheer up, Mr. Starky,” he said. “Before too long well all be rich.”

  The gambler pulled his wide-brimmed black hat lower over his eyes and uttered a single, cold laugh. “Before too long, kid, we’ll all be dead.”

  ~*~

  Palacio, the Apache, was mad enough to stab someone. Chief of the Chiricahuas, he was an imposing figure in his lavishly beaded buckskins, beaded knife sheath, and necklace of rare shells. He was made more imposing by his bulk, for he had the distinction of being the only fat Chiricahua on the reservation. While many of his people went hungry daily and had to scrounge like rats to find enough to feed their families, Palacio never knew want. He always had enough to eat, always had enough on hand to keep his big belly full for many sleeps on end.

  His secret? Palacio was good at manipulating people. He had manipulated his own into accepting him as leader after the great Cochise passed on. He had manipulated the whites into thinking that his influence among the Chiricahuas was boundless, and that they only needed to ask and he would see their wishes fulfilled.

  The white-eyes were grateful for the help since they had so hard a time keeping a tight rein on the Chiricahuas. So grateful that they lavished gifts on Palacio to keep him disposed in their favor. It was the white way, Palacio had early learned, and he milked their false generosity for all it was worth. Did he need food? He had but to say the word. Horses? He could always pick from the finest. Clothes, knives, whatever he wanted, he was allowed to have.

  Until this very day.

  Few of Palacio’s people had ever seen him mad. He always smiled, always treated everyone as if they were long lost relatives. But now he scowled as he rode along on his magnificent white horse toward the wickiup of the warrior he needed to visit. He scowled at all those he passed, scowled at the decrepit dwellings in which they lived, scowled at the baked land which surrounded the village.

  It was all their fault, Palacio inwardly raged. His stupid people were to blame for the army refusing to give him so much as a kernel of com. They were to blame because he was sure some of them knew where to find Delgadito’s filthy renegades, yet they refused to share the secret with him. It would serve them right, he fumed, if they all starved to death.

  Presently the wickiup Palacio sought appeared. He smoothed his scowl and plastered a sham smile on his face. If Sait-jah suspected the real reason for his visit, the warrior would laugh him to scorn. He must be wily, like the fox. He must be determined, like the badger. And above all, he must lie with a silver tongue.

  Drawing rein, Palacio oozed to the ground. He stretched first one ponderous leg, then the other. Long rides often cut off his circulation. His wife claimed it was because he was so fat he could not sit a horse right, a claim she had only made once. A cuff had seen to that.

  A shadow filled the entrance. From within uncoiled Sait-jah, his own head rising as high as the stallion’s, his features as stem as the land which had spawned him. Bands of sinew rippled on his stomach and arms.

  Looking at him, one of the fiercest warriors in the whole tribe, Palacio congratulated himself on having made the right choice. “Greetings, my brother,” he began. “It has been too long since last my ears heard words from your lips.”

  Sait-jah wore a perpetual frown which was accented by a scar on the side of his chin. “To what do I owe this great honor?” he asked, his contempt thick enough to be sliced with a Bowie knife.

  Palacio overlooked the insult. “I thought we would smoke and talk.”

  “We will talk. Here.” So saying, Sait-jah sat down right where he stood, flowing as smoothly as a cougar.

  The chief paused. He did not like to sit on the ground. It would dirty his buckskins and he had already had to change once that day after he broke out in a sweat in the middle of the morning. Seeing there was no other choice, he carefully lowered his ample posterior and made himself as comfortable as he could. “Now then,” he began suavely, “how have you been?”

  “What do you care?” Sait-jah retorted. “You have shown no interest in my welfare in the past. Why do so now?”

  Feigning a hurt look, Palacio said, ‘Why do you treat me so harshly? What have I done that you dislike me so? If we do not talk as often as you would like, you must keep in mind that I have many hundreds I must look after. I visit as many of our people as I can but the days are not long enough for me to do all that must be done.”

  Sait-jah was a rock. If he sympathized, he hid it well.

  “I do the best I can, being only one man,” Palacio said, and thought he detected the hint of a smirk on the iron warrior’s face. Going on quickly, he added, “And I think most of our people would agree that I have done a good job.”

  Still Sait-jah was silent.

  “I have gotten us extra food and clothing from the whites, have I not? I get us permission to hunt when it is needed, and permission to travel off the reservation. It was I who talked the white-eyes into giving old Nana many blankets and food when her husband was trampled. It was I who helped sweet Com Flower and her children when their man was killed by Comanches.” Palacio swelled his chest. “I think even you would agree that I always have the interests of the Chiricahuas at heart.”

  Sait-jah stirred. “Let us look at your words to see if they are spoken with a straight tongue.” He counted off on his fingers as he went on. “You say that you get us food and clothing, but much of it ends up in your own lodge. You get
us permission to hunt where once our fathers hunted as they pleased, and we should thank you? You helped Nana, I hear, only after she gave you her husband’s horse. As for Com Flower, she is so sweet that it is said you could not resist a taste even though you have a woman of your own.” The warrior’s eyes were daggers. “Yes, you are a big help to the Chiricahuas.”

  This was not going as Palacio had counted on. He knew Sait-jah could be difficult but he had not expected open hostility. Since Sait-jah could not be duped by little lies, he would try another approach. “What about you? Are you willing to help your people?”

  “Always.”

  “Even if doing so puts your life in danger?”

  “What is danger to an Apache?”

  Palacio pretended to be impressed. “I would expect no less from the mighty Sait-jah. Your reputation is well earned. Who can forget the time you slew seven Mexican soldiers all by yourself? Or that time you led the charge against the whites in Apache Pass? Cochise himself praised your work that day.”

  “Cochise,” Sait-jah repeated. “There was a real leader. He gave his heart and soul so that our people could live. And he did not drown us in words, as some do.”

  Flattery was proving to be just as useless as lies. Palacio held his temper in check and pondered. Warriors like Sait-jah were so forthright, it disgusted him. They saw everything as either good or bad and wanted nothing to do with the bad. Like children, they were not smart enough to understand that life was more complex, that many compromises had to be made if one was to get by.

  “Yes, Cochise was great,” Palacio admitted. “He always knew what was best for our tribe. I have tried to do as he did but I am not Cochise.”

  Sait-jah did not reply. He did not have to. His face was eloquent enough.

  “I wish Cochise were here now,” Palacio went on while making a mental note to find some way to repay the warrior someday. “He would know what to do about the grave problem we face. I have an idea, but I am not so sure it is the right one.”