Showdown

by Deborah Chester

  The sentry shouted, and two other braves came running.

  One of them plucked the pistol from Noel’s hand.

  He looked into their dark, impassive faces. Their eyes held only hostility.

  Noel knew better than to show any fear. He met their gazes as arrogantly as he could.

  “I want to speak to Kansana,” he said.

  The braves grunted in scorn. The one holding the army rifle said in English, “You think you are clever, White Eyes. But you do not escape us, no matter how many tricks you try. Take him back, Iotah, and tie him once again.”

  They lashed his hands behind his back.

  “Wait a minute,” said Noel. “I’m not your prisoner. I’m—”

  From the corner of his eye he saw the war club swinging through the air. He twisted on his heel in an effort to dodge it, but pain exploded through his skull and he fell into blackness.

  Chapter 7

  The shock of water thrown in his face brought Noel abruptly awake. He groaned, rolling onto his side, and licked the water from his chapped lips. It tasted good. He longed for more.

  A foot kicked him. He opened his eyes and sat up. He was kicked again, from all sides, until he got to his feet and stood swaying. He touched the throbbing spot on the back of his skull and winced.

  He was surrounded by Apache braves, ranging from young boys to old men. Bronzed and lean, they stared at him with eyes like chipped flint. Their faces—flat-cheeked, strong­ nosed, thin-lipped—gave nothing away. He was struck by a sense of an alien culture, an alien way of thought. He wondered if he would be able to communicate with them at all, not just with words but with meaning. He suspected they shared few points of reference.

  “I’ve come in friendship—” he began, but one of them struck him.

  “Do not speak.”

  Before he could protest, the circle parted to reveal a tall Apache with long gray hair falling to his shoulders. Squint lines around his deep-set eyes and grooves worn on either side of his wide, thin-lipped mouth spoke of his age. The Apache’s bare chest was deep and powerfully muscled. A puckered white scar ran diagonally across his torso. Another scar ran the length of his left arm. His strong legs were crisscrossed with dozens of tiny scars.

  His keen dark eyes commanded authority. At once Noel knew he was facing Kansana, leader of these people.

  The Apache studied Noel in silence. Noel wanted to appeal to him, but he held his tongue as he’d been commanded.

  At last, Kansana finished his inspection. Only then did his gaze shift beyond Noel. He pointed.

  Noel turned around and saw Leon dangling against the cliff face, hanging by his arms. The sun was high overhead now, and its rays were just starting to strike Leon. He had been positioned to hang in the sun at the hottest time of the day.

  Despite his dislike for his double, Noel could not ignore a swift prick of concern. Leon’s eyes were shut. His face was bruised and skinned, puffy from too much sun exposure. Dried blood encrusted his lips. Shirtless and bootless, he hung motionless, not even moaning. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest betrayed the fact that he still lived.

  Noel didn’t want to be near Leon at any time. He wished Leon didn’t exist. But the senseless, sadistic brutality of this torture angered Noel. He turned back to Kansana with a hot glare.

  Kansana held up two fingers. “Twins?” he said.

  Stiffly Noel nodded.

  “My youngest son Yotavo captured him,” said Kansana with pride. “With only traditional Apache weapons, my son captured a White Eyes, his woman, and his horse. It was a good coup.”

  Noel considered saying something insulting, and thought better of it. Instead he said, “I have come to ransom the girl. She is the granddaughter of Tom Trask.”

  Something flickered in Kansana’s dark eyes. “Trask is known to us. He deals fairly with the tinde.”

  “He is very concerned about his granddaughter. He would like her back,” said Noel.

  “Why did Trask not come himself and ask?”

  “He is old, and his son is dying,” said Noel shortly. “El Raton’s men burned his ranch.”

  Kansana nodded as though he knew this news already. Noel wondered how fast the Apache grapevine worked. Just how much could they communicate with steel mirrors? Or maybe someone hoofed it over the mountains every night with the midnight news report.

  Noel waited, but Kansana wasn’t much of a talker. Noel wished he hadn’t gotten the bright idea to come here by himself. He suspected Don Emilio’s smooth tongue would have been useful. Diplomacy wasn’t Noel’s strong suit.

  He said, “Will you release her?”

  ‘What does Trask offer?”

  “What do you want?”

  As soon as he spoke, Noel knew he’d said the wrong thing. Kansana’s eyes narrowed. He turned away.

  “Wait!” said Noel desperately. “Do you want cattle? Horses?”

  Scorn rippled through the other braves. Tahzi, who had spoken to Noel last night, said, “Cattle we take. Horses we do not need.”

  Noel had already figured out his offer was pretty feeble.

  Cody had explained to him yesterday that an Apache could trot twenty miles in a day without tiring. If an Apache bothered to ride a horse, he was likely to eat it at the end of the day, aware that he could always steal another one.

  “Guns,” croaked a voice from behind him.

  Noel turned and saw Leon’s swollen eyes cracked open. Although he was obviously in pain, Leon managed to glare his contempt at Noel.

  “Give…guns,” he gasped out.

  Noel knew enough about old West history to recognize that as bad advice. Rifles would enable the Apaches to go on the warpath, killing ranchers and settlers in wholesale slaughter.

  On the other hand, there was the girl, kneeling in the dirt and tied to a stake like a stray dog. Noel’s eyes met her blue ones across the distance. She shook her head.

  “Guns are good trade,” said Kansana.

  Noel hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t have any guns. Trask won’t agree to that.”

  “Then there is no ransom.”

  “Kansana,” said Noel sharply, “I have heard it said that you do not keep white captives—”

  “My son will trade her to another band,” said Kansana. “It is his right.”

  “I will trade you myself for her freedom,” said Noel.

  The Apaches conferred among themselves. Kansana listened to them. His face remained impassive; he said nothing.

  At last he held up his hand to silence them. His gaze met Noel’s. “You do not bargain for your brother.”

  “No,” said Noel.

  “White Eyes believe that the tinde are savages. They say we kill women and children, that we have no heart. I have strong sons. They are my pride; my heart runs with their swiftness.”

  Noel wasn’t sure where Kansana was going. He waited, trying to curb his impatience.

  “Tahzi left his lance in your camp last night. He says you ride with the grandson of Trask and a Mexican.”

  “Don Emilio Navarres,” said Noel with a nod.

  A murmur ran through the braves. Kansana smiled. “We steal much cattle from Don Emilio.”

  “Good going…Noel,” croaked Leon hoarsely. “Come no plan…usual. You waiting for…rescue?”

  “Shut up!” said Noel.

  Leon laughed. It was a rasping husk of sound, broken off by a groan of misery.

  Noel felt a shiver somewhere deep inside him. His duplicate was dying by slow, agonizing degrees.

  “Trask has been fair with you,” said Noel desperately. “Return that courtesy now by letting his granddaughter return to him.”

  Yotavo stepped forward with a swagger. He looked young and arrogant and dangerous. His black eyes gleamed with heat. “Let us see his big words when he is roasting over the slow fire. He seeks to trick us. The girl belongs to me. Why should I give her up for empty words?”

  “Keeping peace with Trask is more essential
than your importance,” said Tahzi sharply.

  Yotavo scowled. “You are afraid to fight. You trust every White Eyes who speaks of peace. But there is no peace for our people. We have seen how they tricked the Tchiene. Now there are none of them. Soon there will be no Mescaleros or Chiricahuas.”

  “I had a long dream in the night,” began an old man who was as skinny as a stick and so wrinkled and toothless he looked more like a mummy than a man.

  But no one wanted to listen to his dream.

  “Kansana,” said Tahzi, “hear me. This one has Power. He is not like the other, who is weak. I saw him standing in strange light and he spoke Power words—”

  “Perhaps it is Tahzi who had the dream,” jeered Yotavo. Some of the men chuckled. Tahzi’s hand went to the long knife at his side, but Kansana held up his hand wearily.

  “Fighting among ourselves accomplishes nothing. If we keep the girl, Trask, Don Emilio, and all the other ranchers will band together to make war with us.”

  “They will send the soldiers—”

  “Now Tahzi fears the soldiers,” said Yotavo scornfully. “Tahzi fears the roadrunner. Tahzi fears his own shadow.”

  “Silence!” said Kansana sharply.

  The youngsters obeyed, but Tahzi’s eyes were drawn to smoldering slits and Yotavo smirked.

  “Tahzi has wisdom, and you, Yotavo, see nothing but the end of your own war lance,” said Kansana angrily. The smirk died from Yotavo’s face. He glowered. “We have seen Victorio raise the warpath. He failed to drive away the White Eyes. Nana failed, too. They put him in an iron cage and let all the White Eyes walk by to look at him. Now even Geronimo is defeated. Is this the shame we want?”

  “If we do not fight, they will take all our land for theirs,” said Yotavo.

  “If we fight, they take it anyway,” said Tahzi. “They are too many.”

  “Old woman,” sneered Yotavo. “I do not fear them. Nana was old. Geronimo was old. Today I hear only the words of old men.” His gaze, bold and hot, met Noel’s. “Unless I have guns, many guns, I do not give back the girl.”

  Noel glared back, almost choking with frustration. Here stood Kansana, who was perfectly reasonable and willing to make a deal, and Yotavo just wanted to be bullheaded and cause more trouble.

  “Told you,” whispered Leon.

  Noel ignored him. This mess was Leon’s fault, and he was getting exactly what he deserved.

  “Maybe Yotavo is afraid to be a man,” said Noel, figuring he’d had enough of playing the cautious diplomat.

  Yotavo grew still and intent, like a rattlesnake.

  “A man, like Kansana, knows when to be merciful, when to make peace, and when to make war. A child makes many boasts, and is afraid to do what is wise.”

  The men chuckled. Beyond them, pretending to work hard at their tasks, even some of the women exchanged smiles.

  Yotavo’s face turned dark with rage. Whipping out his knife, he charged at Noel.

  “Enough!” said Kansana sharply and gripped Yotavo’s knife hand.

  The boy strained a moment to get free, but although the cords in Kansana’s neck stood out like ropes, his strength was superior. The knife dropped in the dirt and glittered there like silver. Kansana released Yotavo, who stumbled back with a murderous glare.

  Noel barely managed to hide his relief. It was about time old Kansana put the loudmouth in his place. Now they’d get somewhere.

  “There is much talk of manhood,” said Kansana, and his voice was hard with anger. “Now we will have proof. You have offered yourself in exchange for the girl, White Eyes. We will take this offer.”

  The glow inside Noel faded. He met Kansana’s gaze, and his whole being grew alert and careful. Without hesitation he nodded.

  “There is more,” said Kansana. “We will test you. If you prove yourself as much a man as an Apache, we will let you take the girl to her grandfather. Is it agreed?”

  The braves murmured their approval. Tahzi looked worried, but he was nodding. Yotavo still glared in sullen rage.

  “He will squirm for mercy like a maggot on a hot rock,” said Yotavo with scorn. “Like the other one.”

  Noel noticed no one asked him if he went along with this twist in the deal. Apache torture wasn’t something he wanted to experience. He didn’t like the idea of trials of manhood either. These men had the advantage of being adapted to the climate and terrain. If they expected him to run a twenty-mile footrace, they could forget it.

  “Why don’t we compete with bows and arrows?” Noel asked. “Skill in marksmanship.”

  “Even a child can shoot the bow,” said Yotavo.

  Tahzi touched Noel’s chest. “It is settled,” he said. “Come.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Noel in alarm, looking around and realizing the Apaches had scattered. “What’s been settled? What are we going to do?”

  Tahzi prodded him forward without answering. As Noel walked away, he heard Leon’s rasping laugh.

  Ten minutes later Noel found out what he had to do. At the mouth of the canyon, the cliff walls veered out and the ground was fairly level. In the past someone had built a corral across the mouth of the canyon, probably to trap wild horses or to pen cattle. Tall gateposts with a crosspiece overhead supported a dangling rope. The gate was long since gone, and most of the fence had fallen down, but the posts looked sturdy. Noel saw a handful of young warriors astride horses, milling in anticipation. The rest of the camp had gathered to watch, the women speaking sharply to children who wandered too close to the proceedings.

  Yotavo rode the sorrel horse that had belonged to Leon. In his hands he was coiling a long bullwhip. Noel watched him a moment and felt suddenly icy cold despite the hundred­ degree heat. He was beginning to suspect what they had in mind.

  Kansana came up to him. “The men will take turns riding past you. Fifty strokes.”

  Noel blinked, and barely managed to hide his dismay. Pride demanded that he pull out his macho superman act, Lisa-­Marie on his chest, and grunt expressively, but inside he wanted to be sick. He’d seen Roman floggings, with the victim’s back shredded down to the bone and mangled flesh oozing blood. His breath left him, and he couldn’t seem to get it back.

  Kansana’s eyes bored into him. “A man does not cry out in pain. Is this understood?”

  Noel nodded.

  “One cry, and you fail the test. The girl will stay and she will belong to Yotavo. If you remain silent, the girl will leave with you in safety.”

  Noel nodded again. Worried that his fear might show, he didn’t want to look at Kansana. It took all the effort he possessed, but he managed to say breathlessly, “Deal.”

  Kansana nodded and walked away. The women were chattering and smiling coyly at the braves, who showed off fancy rider tricks for them. They galloped past with one hand brushing the ground or drove war lances into a small target painted on the gatepost or knelt on their mount’s back to shoot arrows. The women fluttered, and the children whooped with admiration. In their midst, Lisa-Marie sat quietly, the rawhide noose still about her neck. Now and then one of the women jerked it, just to give her a reminder of what her place was.

  When Noel walked by, he glanced at her. She was staring into the distance, her face pale but composed. Her blue eyes were blank as though trying to tune out what was happening.

  He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t sure what he would feel in her place. But at the same time, he would have appreciated a look of gratitude. She didn’t have to lead a pep rally for him, but a smile would be nice.

  They stripped off his shirt and hung him upside down by his heels. At once the blood rushed to his head and started pounding in his ears. He swung gently in the hot wind, looking at the ground about three feet below him. The position made him feel vulnerable and helpless. He noticed that his back was to the starting point of the riders. That meant he couldn’t see them coming, would have only his hearing to warn him.

  He heard hoofbeats approaching like thunder. Closing his eyes, N
oel steeled himself as best he could. He heard the faint whistle of leather flying through air, then fire exploded in him with such force he felt cut in half. His eyes flew open and he fought for breath, too stunned to do more than dimly register a blurred shape of horse and rider galloping past him.

  The rider wheeled and looped back, handing the whip to the next brave. The hoofbeats came at Noel again. The fire across his chest and back was spreading, like acid burning through his skin. Then the second lash wrapped around him, crossing the first one. He jerked and barely held back a grunt of agony.

  By the time ten strokes had been delivered, he was blind and shuddering, barely able to keep from screaming for them to stop. He didn’t think he could last through five more, much less the whole fifty. The pain was beyond comprehension, countless layers of it overlapping his consciousness. Some of the riders were better at wielding the whip than others. Some of the blows came clumsily; others bit into him like razor wire. He was spun around and around by the impetus of the lashes. Some caught him on the chest, some on the side, some across the back, some all the way around. He could feel his blood dripping hot on his skin. He saw splatters of it being absorbed by the dust below him.

  Yet the lashes kept coming. Time after time he felt himself skidding toward the blessed relief of unconsciousness, yet each blow brought him back to full awareness. It grew harder and harder to hold back his cries of pain. He could feel each scream hit against his clenched teeth, and it took all his will, all his strength, to remain silent.

  No matter how hard they hit him, he refused to be beaten. He learned to expel his breath just before the blow so that he had no air to make an outcry. Sweaty blood dripped into his eyes, salty and stinging. He blinked fiercely, finding his whole consciousness focused down to this battle of wills, this determination not to surrender.

  The next lash caught him across the stomach, low, right along the edge of his trousers. Bile hit the back of his throat, and he almost choked on it. When it was gone, he gasped for air, miserable with the sourness of it lingering in his throat and nostrils.

  His thoughts wandered, and he remembered when he was a child learning how to dive. He must have been five or six years old, a skinny, shivering boy crouched on the edge of the lap pool built in the basement of their home. The concrete dug into his knees. Chlorine reeked in the damp, stuffy air. Artificial lights hung from the low ceiling, and the water looked black and oily. At night it haunted his nightmares. He called it the lagoon of the monster. He knew that eventually the monster would rise from the murky depths of the pool and come upstairs to drag him from his bed down to the basement. It would stash him at the bottom of the pool the way crocodiles stashed meat to rot before eating. His parents would search for him, but they would never find him at the black bottom of the pool, not until it was drained for cleaning. Now his father expected, no, demanded, him to dive into the water headfirst, straight into the jaws waiting beneath the surface.