The Blackbird

by Kristy McCaffrey

  “You’ve never shared much about your time with the Apache, Cale. Are your loyalties split down the center now?”

  Cale smiled, but it held little humor. “I’ve come to rely on friendships more. And you can’t deny that some Apache are worthy people.”

  Fitz shifted in his seat and let out a hoarse laugh. “Yep, tis true, but I’m damn tired of dealing with the ones who aren’t.”

  Chapter Eleven

  That evening, Tess accompanied Kitty, Fitz and Cale to dine with several of the officers at a large table in the mess hall. Captain Fitzgerald took the chair at the head after seating his wife to his left, and Cale and Tess to his right. Fitz’s men waited patiently—bodies stiff, eyes forward—then filled the rest of the chairs as if they were a single, coordinated entity.

  Tess resisted the urge to smile. Their training was impressive, but it couldn’t hide their eagerness for the steaming, succulent food wafting from nearby platters and pots on a side table.

  The meal commenced with little conversation until one of the officers lifted his chin in Cale’s direction. “Mr. Walker, I heard you were awarded the Medal of Honor.”

  Tess looked at Cale. “You have a medal?”

  Fitz broke off a piece of sourdough bread and swabbed the last traces of deer stew from his bowl. “He does.”

  Cale poured another cup of strong coffee.

  Tess waved him off when he tried to fill hers as well. When it was clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, she turned back to the captain. “What happened?”

  The other men at the table, as well as Kitty, focused their attention on Captain Fitzgerald.

  “It was called the Campaign of the Rocky Mesa,” Fitz began. “I wasn’t there, but since I doubt Cale will recount the details, I’ll assume the storyteller status for the evening.” He shot a questioning look in Tess’s direction. “If you don’t mind, my dear.”

  “Not at all,” she replied.

  “Back in ’69, the president of the Apache Pass Mine, a man by the name of John Stone, was attacked by Apache while aboard a mail coach. They were near the Dragoons. He was killed, along with the driver and an escort of four soldiers from Bowie. It was Cochise and his band.

  “They soon left that carnage and proceeded to steal a bunch of cattle that were en route from Texas to California. They killed a man there, but another managed to escape and make his way here. So, a bunch of troopers took chase. Cochise knew he’d never make it across the border into Mexico, so he diverted into the Chiricahua Mountains, up into Rucker Canyon. That’s when you joined the attack, right Cale?”

  “Yep.” He leaned back in his chair and rested an arm on the table.

  “Captain Bernard—as I recall, he led the assault. Never did much care for the man.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Cale murmured.

  “Why?” Tess asked.

  “Rucker Canyon is covered with cedars and has a rocky promontory up high,” Fitz continued, “and the Apache—who normally only had bows and arrows and spears—had acquired guns. The soldiers could never gain any ground, despite positioning sharpshooters on a nearby hill. It was cold and rainy, and the skirmishes lasted a week.

  “Cale and the other men tried to take that mesa, but they were turned back by the tenacity of the Indians. Bernard was aggressive, and some have said he recklessly ordered his men into the fray. That true, Cale?”

  “It’s always easier to judge an outcome after the fact. I may not have liked Bernard, but he did pull out when it was clear we would never win.”

  “I know some good men were lost that day. Bernard recommended thirty-one Medals of Honor be awarded, and Cale deservedly received one for attempting to take that mesa again and again, at great risk.”

  Tess glanced at Cale beside her. “How do you find such courage?” she asked quietly.

  “That’s not courage, Tess. I was scared down to my toes. When two of the men were shot through the head, a group of us were determined not to abandon the bodies. If we had, the Apache would’ve mutilated them.”

  “Did you get them?”

  Cale shook his head. “In the end, no. It was too dangerous.”

  “And now Cochise is gone,” Fitz said.

  Tess had heard in Tucson about the famed Apache leader’s death some three years ago. “You all must’ve been very happy when he died.”

  Fitz leaned back to allow a private to clear his dinner dishes. “There was a sense that maybe the Apache terror would end. Cochise had tried to make amends, for the sake of his people. You had to respect him. Did you ever meet him, Cale?”

  Cale nodded. “He was smart and pragmatic. Not a man to be backed into a corner.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  The conversation turned to talk of daily business about the fort, but after hearing of the battle and Cale’s part in it, Tess had an absurd desire to grab Cale’s hand and hold it tight.

  “Did you use the oil yet?” he asked, leaning close.

  She nodded.

  He grinned. “I thought you smelled like acorns.”

  Tess's face heated, but the teasing pleased her. She found, more and more, that she looked forward to any time she could spend with Cale. His presence also deterred the other men from engaging her attention too much. Tess hardly considered herself an irresistible romantic interest, but she was one of few females at the fort, and Kitty reigned as everyone’s mother figure. With Cale, she felt safe.

  As the evening came to an end, Cale put her atop Gideon and walked the horse to the Fitzgerald's home, the sloping hills surrounding the fort illuminated in the moonlight.

  At the hitching post, he helped her dismount, retrieved her cane and handed it to her, then stepped back. She liked that he didn’t crowd her.

  “Are your accommodations comfortable?” he asked.

  “Sí, but Kitty snores.” Then she added quickly, afraid she sounded ungrateful, “Just a little.”

  “If it's any consolation, so does Fitz.”

  Tess laughed. “Then they're well-suited.” She moved to the porch, Cale behind her.

  “What do you think about the situation with the Apache?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “I think it's complex.”

  She turned to face him, lamplight from the windows along officers’ row casting a warm glow. “Do you think the tribe you were with is at one of the reservations?”

  Cale propped an arm on a wooden pillar. “I don’t know for certain, but if I were to guess, I’d say no.”

  “The army won’t protect them.”

  “I know.”

  Even in the shadows, Tess could see the tension along his jawline. “Does that worry you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Tess tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “You must have been close to them.”

  “With some, yes. I was close to Hank once, too. But time changes things.”

  “Have you ever been married?” It suddenly occurred to her that maybe he'd had a woman when he was with the Apache. That might explain why he'd stayed so long with them.

  “No. Not even close.”

  It surprised her how glad she felt over that statement. As an awkward silence began to descend, she blurted, “Would you like me to tell you a historia?”

  “Sure. I'd like that.”

  Tess sat in a rocking chair, laying her cane beside her, and envisioned Kitty passing the time here on a hot summer afternoon. If not for the Apache threat, the Chiricahua Mountains were a very restorative place. Tess sensed the natural world settle around her, buffering her in its embrace. Cale sat upon the other chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing his arms across his chest.

  She watched the dark sky and the hills beyond as she spoke. “There once was un lobo—a wolf—who lived in the mountains of Mexico. He was very cunning, and took good care of his pack. People in the surrounding hills would hear his call at night, along with all the wolves in the mountains. But it was said this wolf was the leader, bigger and stronger than a
ll the rest.

  “The people began to settle and expand in the area. Along with building their homes, they hunted the local wildlife. After a time, the wolves struggled to find food. This brought them in closer to the people's homes, and they soon began killing off livestock. So a bounty was put on the leader’s head. They called him Gran Uno, the Great One.

  “Traps were set, but each night they were empty. This went on for weeks. The bounty rose higher, and hunters came from far and wide. One, in particular, became determined to best Gran Uno. He laid more elaborate traps, taking care to hide them and to erase all possible human scents, but still, Gran Uno eluded them all.

  “For the hunter, it became a battle of wits, and he was determined to win. One night, he happened upon a clue—smaller prints could be seen in the vicinity where Gran Uno had been sighted. The hunter suspected these might belong to a female lobo, and perhaps she was Gran Uno's mate.

  “So, instead of trapping the alpha wolf, he set out to snare the female. She wasn't as wise as her mate, and the hunter soon had her. Under the light of a full moon, he and several other men came into the clearing where a beautiful silver wolf cried at the snares trapping all four of her legs. The hunter, invigorated by the successful catch, watched her with little remorse. In the distance, at the edge of the woods, he saw at last the Great One. Gran Uno stood by, howling, frantic for his mate, but he knew enough to stay back.

  “The hunter wrapped a rope around the female's neck and, with a swift jerk, broke it. Gran Uno's grief was great, and he cried for her for many nights thereafter. Although the hunter was unnerved by the wolf's tremendous sorrow, he still plotted to entrap him. He knew the key lay with the silver wolf. He used her scent to bait the traps, and succeeded in luring Gran Uno to his capture.

  “But when the hunter came to the alpha wolf and met his gaze, the brave countenance and refusal to bow down moved him. He couldn't bring himself to slay the animal. Instead, he bound his legs and muzzled him, put him atop a horse, and brought him back to the village. There, he was shackled.

  “During the night, Gran Uno died, and the hunter knew that it had been from a broken heart. From that point on, the hunter could no longer perform the killings that had been his livelihood. In losing the wolf and knowing how he had taken the life of Gran Uno’s great love, a part of him became broken, too.

  “But in the broken pieces of his heart, a light shone into his soul. He became a friend to the wolves and vowed to help them.”

  Tess fell silent. This tale always made her sad. She wasn’t certain why she’d shared this one with Cale, except that it spoke of redemption.

  “That's a good story, Tess,” Cale said quietly.

  “The hunter reminds me of men like you and Hank.”

  “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. Do you still think I’m that ruthless?”

  “No.” The conviction settled deep in her bones. “But Hank is, isn’t he?”

  Cale's silence answered her question.

  “Dios will absolve a man’s sins, if he’s truly sorry,” she said.

  “I doubt you have any sins.”

  She couldn't look at him. “What if I told you that the attack was my fault?”

  “You can tell me anything you like, but you'll never make me believe that you deserved what Saul did to you.”

  She took a fortifying breath, and forged ahead before she could talk herself out of it. “After I'd been with Hank for some time, I came to understand that what he and the men with him did wasn’t always...lawful. He did try to shield me, tried to leave me behind at times to keep me safe in the most basic sense. But in the end, Hank couldn't hide what he was.” Her voice had grown in force, the bitterness surprising her. She'd wanted to believe her padre was a good man, that he enacted justice with the work he undertook. But he wasn't always noble.

  “Did you know Jim Bennett?” she asked.

  “Yeah. He was part of Hank’s posse, but he didn’t go with us to the Apache slaughter. I haven’t seen him since before that.”

  “Unfortunately you won’t see him alive again. They killed him.”

  “Why?” The edge in Cale’s voice sent a shiver down her spine.

  “There had been an incident along the Texas-Mexico border months before, and a handful of Mexican putas had been killed. I’m not certain which of them did it, Hank or Saul or Walt, but they walked away. The law doesn’t generally care if a whore is gunned down. But a U.S. Marshal was caught in the crossfire and later died. The bullet the doctors dug out of him was traced to an old Colt-Paterson. Saul carried such a gun. And while it wasn’t definitive evidence, it obviously worried him, no doubt because he was guilty. He diverted attention by planting the weapon on a woman, another puta I believe, and through a series of unfortunate circumstances, she hung for it. This pushed Jim over the edge.”

  “Was she his woman?”

  “I believe so,” Tess replied quietly. “I’d always liked Jim. Of any of them, he was the kindest.”

  Cale leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Jim wasn’t a bad sort.”

  “He must’ve struggled with his grief and anger for some time, but finally decided to turn them all in. Somehow Saul found out. We were in Tucson when I overheard him talking to Walt, and what they planned to do. They thought I was asleep. I couldn’t stand by and let them murder him.”

  She slowly rocked her chair, the action keeping a steady rhythm with her heartbeat. Her hands gripped the armrests as her leg began to ache.

  “What did you do?” Cale asked.

  “I took a horse and left. Jim was holed up out of town. I had to warn him.”

  The force of Cale’s gaze caused her to stop rocking. “That was incredibly dangerous.”

  “I’ve wondered if I’d just let it be, then maybe Jim would still be alive.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  “Saul and Walt burst in and caught us. Saul immediately accused me of betrayal, and insinuated that I was seducing Jim. And then it all happened so quickly, someone drew, shots were fired...and Jim was dead. I still don’t know who actually gunned him down. And then Saul insisted that I be punished. Walt argued with him, but Saul clearly stated that Hank knew I’d come there, and that he’d put Saul in charge of handling the situation.”

  “Tess.” Cale reached out and clasped her hand, the sympathy surprising her.

  “Maybe I should’ve just left it alone. Maybe Jim wasn’t as good as I thought he was. I’d betrayed them, didn’t I? Hank obviously wanted me punished.”

  “Why in the hell do you want to find him?” The muscles in his cheeks flexed as he spoke through gritted teeth. His hand squeezed hers, and she couldn’t help but feel that he hung on as if he were drowning.

  “Because I deserve to know why he let Saul hurt me that way.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she couldn't stop them. “I also wonder if he’s stayed away because he can’t face me. I mean to tell him that I forgive him.”

  Cale’s pulse pounded in his neck, and she heard every labored breath he took. “He doesn't deserve it, Tess,” he finally said.

  “Everyone warrants a second chance. That hunter did the unthinkable to Gran Uno's mate, but in the end, he dedicated his life to making amends.”

  Cale burst from the chair, his body taut, and raked a hand through his short hair. “That's a goddamn story. It's not real life.”

  He punched the hitching post rail with the butt of his hand, startling Gideon.

  “You're wrong.” She shook from deep inside, the anger flaring without warning. “Stories are more real than the pale existence we all live here. I won't let go of Hank. I won't let him slip away, believing himself to be the kind of man he once was. I can help change him. Just like the Apache changed you.”

  Cale gave a bark of laughter, but there was no humor in it. He shook his head. “You're too good for him. You're too good for all of us.”

  “You're wrong. If I don't try to help Hank, then I
'm no better than he is.”

  She had to try and save her padre’s soul.

  “Tess, you were always better than Hank. If you never believe anything I ever say, then just remember that.”

  Cale’s conviction reverberated through her, and she knew he didn’t lie. She’d never had anyone defend her like this, believe in her despite her actions. It chipped away, however slightly, at the self-doubt that had been her constant companion these many long months and years. Cale didn’t recoil from her, instead he looked at her, really looked, and didn’t flinch in his regard.

  Is this what it felt to be strengthened by the hand of God? For surely Cale was a bridge from one world to the next.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cale didn't sleep well, haunted by Tess's revelations. Hank had often existed in a borderland of justice and vigilantism, and they'd clashed over it time and again. But why hadn't he held it in check for the sake of Tess? Why in the hell did he keep her with him, exposing her to the seedy and ugly underbelly that invariably existed when walking between the lawdogs and the outlaws?

  How could Hank have allowed Saul to handle the situation? Hank knew what kind of man Miller was. Tess shouldn't have survived. It was a testament to her own will-to-live that she had. And now, to seek out the father who didn't deserve it—Cale couldn't fathom that depth of forgiveness.

  He'd never been able to give it to his own pa.

  Cale awakened to the fast-staccato of reveille playing on a bugle in the parade ground, but he immediately knew something was wrong. He bolted from his cot.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as Fitz came past him.

  “Apache approaching.”

  Cale dressed quickly and belted his gun rig around his waist. Placing his Stetson atop his head, he headed to the stables where a private saddled Bo. Cale joined approximately twenty men as they gathered on their horses in the parade area.

  As it had been back in the days Cale was at Bowie, the regiment was a mix of uniforms. Most wore stable frocks—canvas suits meant for grooming their mounts. The simple coat that normally fell at the knees was tucked into their trousers, and while white initially, all were now sufficiently covered in dust, soot and grime to better blend into the surroundings. Others wore double-breasted miner’s shirts in dark blue and gray. And despite the impending heat of the day, several privates wore the dark four-button sack coats. Hats ran the gamut from civilian to forage caps to folding hats with the brims cut down.