The Pride of Hannah Wade

by Janet Dailey

  The di-yin called for the warm water Hannah had brought and began the ritual washing of the baby, followed by the sprinkling of the ha-dintin pollen to the four directions and on the baby and then the offering of the proper prayers. Gatita’s mother and sisters administered to her, bathing her and making sure all was normal.

  Finally the blanket-wrapped baby was handed to his mother for his first meal. His mouth was open and blindly searching, and a small red-brown fist waved in the air. Then, as if it all became too much for him, he yawned widely.

  Gatita laughed tiredly. “Go-yath-khla.” Everyone seemed to agree; only Hannah was confused. Gatita noticed that as she guided the milk-wet teat to her son’s mouth. “I call him Sleepy,” she explained in Spanish.

  An appropriate name. For the first week, that seemed to he all he did.

  A rosy yellow was tinting the sky on the eastern horizon, a fingering light softly stealing into the desert chaparral to show the breaks in the mesquite, palo verde, and creosote bushes. Soon the night shadows would lift and they would be able to see clearly with dawn’s blush on the land.

  Stephen stood in the stirrups, feeling the stretch of his leg muscles, and looked over his shoulder at the column of men. Their faces were haggard from the night’s forced march; they had traveled better than twenty-five miles under the cover of dark. But he was satisfied to see a tension in their expressions, the nerves tightening the way they always do just before the enemy is engaged. Combined with the solid, sure feeling that steadied him, it became a smooth exhilaration, a readiness that made the blood flow and the heart pump strongly.

  But he bridled his impatience for the time being. Stephen could-feel the tiredness of his horse after the all-night trek. The light wasn’t quite right and the horses could use the extra few minutes’ rest. He curbed his own energies and waited.

  The buckskin horse Amos Hill was riding soft-footed over to the tall chestnut that was Stephen’s personal mount. Amos came up on the side of his good eye and eased himself into a better position on the horned saddle.

  “Do they know we’re out here yet?” Stephen asked, sotto voce.

  “Ain’t got a whiff,” Amos assured him in a mumbled whisper, and looked at the spreading color in the sky. “Be light enough soon.”

  “Yes.” Too much energy was contained in him for Stephen to remain still. He swiveled partially in the McClellan to take another look at the men behind him and make certain they were ready to move out at his signal. On his right, he noticed Cutter rubbing a hand across his jaw and cheek, the beard stubble making a scraping sound.

  “Need a shave,” Cutter murmured. He lowered his hand to a uniform-covered thigh with its yellow stripe. “How many should we expect, Amos?”

  “Nah-tay thinks most of the men are away—hunting or raiding. Not many horses. Figure maybe ten, fifteen men. The rest are women and children, maybe thirty or so.”

  Stephen measured the sky’s light with another look. “Let’s move up.”

  The signal was given to move forward at a walk. All sound was subdued—the sand-muffled plod of hooves, the small moans of leather, the muted chomping of bridle bits, and the hush of silent men, faces somber and eyes alert. The last quarter mile to the rancheria’s eastern extremity was a long one. Nah-tay and a dozen of his nan-tans, best scouts, waited for them.

  There was a stir of movement around the jacals, of women adding fresh fuel to the smoldering fires, dogs stretching and wagging their tails at the children wandering out of the brush-covered huts, and men hunching over the rekindled fires. Then the early-morning quiet was shattered by the thundering charge of the blue-suited cavalry.

  The ensuing chaos was a harsh blend of shouts and screams and sporadic bursts of gunfire. The Apache men along with two war women leaped for their weapons, while the rest of the adult females tried to get the chicken to safety. It was a stampede of animals and people, in a dozen directions, women and children fleeing, soldiers chasing, and warriors trying to cover the retreat of their families. The smells of sweat, blood, and panic mixed with the sharp-scented dust and wood-smoke in the air.

  The fury of the clash was expended within minutes as the troop overran the rancheria and captured all who didn’t make it away in the first dash. Five Apaches were killed in the battle, including one woman, and seventeen were taken prisoner, while the company suffered only two casualties, both relatively minor. A detail was dispatched to comb the area for fleeing stragglers, the search patrol composed mainly of Apache scouts and a handful of troopers.

  The rest of the troopers remained at the rancheria, where they rounded up their prisoners and herded them into one of the stick corrals, constructed out of ocotillos. Stephen’s long-striding chestnut swept back toward the center area of the rancheria, the war-horse’s neck arched in excitement from the smell of blood, its reaching trot giving the horse and rider the appearance of gliding across the ground. Stephen reined the prancing horse to a jiggling stop by one of the smoking fires. Cutter rode over. “Get that fire going,” Stephen said. “I want these wickiups burned to the ground. Their weapons, food, supplies-everything destroyed.”

  The intent was simple: deprive the Apache of food, shelter, and weapons, and thus force him to seek the reservation. It was brutal, but effective.

  “Ser-geant!” Cutter summoned Sergeant John T. Hooker as he rode by, and passed along a briefer version of the directive. ‘Torch them.”

  “Yes, suh.” Hooker threw a salute as he hauled his horse into a turn and yelled to a private, the order finally getting to the bottom rank.

  Jake Cutter kicked his horse into motion after the high-striding chestnut, following Wade to the corral where the captives were being held, One-Eye Amos Hill swung out of his saddle and waited by the thorny sticked fence at their approach. The chestnut slowed to a reluctant stop, tossing its head and chewing noisily on the bit Between snorts, wade sat the constantly shifting horse and surveyed the sullen and silent Apache prisoners. A couple of toddlers made the only sounds with their muffled sobs of bewilderment. From the side, Cutter watched him. It was a scene he’d seen played out many times before.

  “Open the gate.” The command was given calmly as Wade twitched his horse to one side.

  Amos Hill motioned to the Apache scout inside, and the crossbar was let down. Knowing its role, the high-bred chestnut settled down immediately and entered the enclosure with parade poise. While Wade slowly walked his horse around the prisoners, stopping to visually inspect each one, Cutter reached inside his pocket for a cigar and lit it. After a long abstinence, the cigar smoke made a pleasing sting on his tongue.

  Amos scuffed the toe of his boot into the ground, glancing up briefly in the general direction of their commanding officer, “Kinda makes me wonder what he’d do if he ever found one of ’em wearin’ somethin’ of his wife’s.”

  “The odds are against it.” Cutter continued to watch with a noncommittal expression.

  “He was over checkin’ the dead ones almost before the flies landed on ’em.” Behind them, the first torch was set to a brush-thatched wickiup. After an exploratory crackle, the flames whooshed over the hut. “He’s persistent as hell, I’ll give him that.” Amos squinted his good eye against the sun’s low angle of light. “Ya know, some authorities claim there’s twenty-five thousand Apache out here. I bet there’s less than ten thousand, an’ probably only a third of ’em is males of fightin’age.”

  “You could be right.” Cutter absently flexed the tired muscles in his shoulders, catching the smell of gun-smoke on his clothes. “Hey, John T.,” he called to the colored sergeant. “As long as we’ve got all these fires going, tell somebody to throw some coffee on one of them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wade rode behind the huddled group of Apache captives one last time, and headed for the corral’s opening. The big chestnut swung outside it and responded to the curb by prancing sideways, snorting at the blazing native huts aflame all around.

  Wade looked directly at the
scout. “You know what to ask.” He didn’t wait for a response, easing the restraining pressure to send his mount forward.

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” Amos said to the major’s back as he rode away, then gave a small shake of his head. “D’ya really think he expects to find her after all this time? What was the last tally—d’ya remember, Cutter? Wasn’t it two Mexican señoritas and one yellow-haired boy he’s bought off the ‘pache?”

  “Something like that.” Cutter conceded that it was roughly the number for whom Wade had paid ransom to the Apache.

  “One of them women had a papoose on her back an’ the other had one in the oven. An’ the boy—he was wild an’ savage as any Apache tot ever thought of bein’.” Amos moved the cud of chewing tobacco to his other cheek and spat out the extra juice. “‘Fears to me, he’s better off not askin’.”

  “Mrs. Wade is a rare woman, Amos.” Cutter gathered up the reins to his horse and leaned idly back in the saddle, the steady pressure on the bit backing his mount from the corral.

  “Now, there ya go. Yore doin’ it, too—tallrin’ like she’s still alive,” Amos declared in exasperation.

  “I guess I’ve been around the major too long. It must have rubbed off.” Cutter’s grin was dry as he reined his horse from the corral and urged the tired animal into a canter.

  The commissary building was pressed into service as a ballroom, its stores stacked away and its bare adobe walls and its rafters festooned with bunting, shields of colored paper, and crossed sabers. At one end of the room, a platform was erected for the regimental band to play at the ball, honoring the visit of the territorial commander, Colonel Edward Hatch, a visit that was covered by Hy Boler from the Silver City newspaper, arriving in his best bib and tucker and his derby hat.

  While the band played its best rendition of a quadrille, the officers, resplendent in their full-dress uniforms, danced the sets with the ladies, elegant in their best satins and taffetas. The floor was a whirl of color, the gold epaulets and regimental cord and sash glittering on the military uniforms while the vibrantly hued gowns gleamed. An exuberance filled the night as the men were filled with a sense of importance at this visit from their regimental commander.

  After leading off the ball, partnering Mrs. Betten-dorf in the grand march, Colonel Hatch stood near the punch bowl, flanked by a semicircle of officers. Prominent among them was Major Stephen Wade, the dramatic touch of the black armband around his sleeve giving him an even more striking appearance.

  “It seems to me you had some very good hunting, Major,” the colonel declared in response to Wade’s report of the number of captives they’d taken in their recent action.

  “Luck was on our side, Colonel. Our scouts were out combing the area for the hostiles who had fled the rancheria we had attacked. They heard a dog barking, and discovered another rancheria not four miles distant. I regrouped my forces and hit the second camp immediately.” Stephen paused and idly took a sip of fresh lemonade, Hannah had often fixed lemonade for them on the hot, hot days when their thirsts seemed unquenchable. He had found nothing of hers at the second rancheria either, nor had any of the Apache captives admitted knowing anything about a white woman taken from the pony soldiers. He resumed his narrative. “Obviously the Apaches didn’t realize we were in the vicinity. If they think the Army is close by, they usually kill the dogs so their barking won’t lead us to their camps.”

  “It was very commendable work.” The colonel brushed aside Stephen’s modesty. “You were out with your company for two weeks, destroyed seven rancherias, killed twenty hostiles, and captured fifty-two—and all without losing a man, and suffering only minor casualties. Very commendable.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” the colonel said gruffly. “To be honest, Major Wade, one of the reasons I decided to visit the fort was to meet you. I’ve been seeing your name on so many reports lately, his glance drifted to the black armband around Wade’s sleeve.” Naturally, the tragedy regarding your wife came to my attention. Most regrettable, sir. Most regrettable.”

  It was still a knife in him, a raw and painful wound that festered. Stephen tasted the bitter irony that it should be Hannah’s fate that had brought him to the attention of his commanding officer.

  “I appreciate your kindness, Colonel.” Stephen stiffly accepted the expression of sympathy.

  “Well, I’m sure you know you’re not alone in all this. You have the prayers of a lot of people, both friends and strangers.”

  “Yes, sir. Since the newspapers picked up the story from the Gazette about my search for her, I have received a good many letters of encouragement from people I don’t even know. “Some of the eastern trades had carried it, and Stephen was well aware that the military hierarchy was particularly sensitive to the press. General Crook was even known to include two reporters in his entourage to ensure that his activities got proper coverage. Hy Boler was serving the same purpose for Stephen.

  “That’s to be expected. I like you,” Hatch said abruptly. “General Pope thinks you are the kind of officer we need at command. What would you say to that, Major Wade?”

  “I would be deeply flattered.” Stephen inclined his head in acknowledgement of the honor while expressing regret. “But you understand that I would not be happy to leave the area until my wife is found. If nothing else, I owe her a Christian burial.” He was aware that the newspaper publisher was listening closely to the conversation.

  “Of course, of course. However, the army may feel that you are needed elsewhere,” the colonel suggested diplomatically.

  “Naturally I will obey any orders the army gives me.”

  “I never doubted it, Major.” The mustached colonel smiled, and finally shared his attention with the rest of the officers gathered around. ‘This strategy against the Apache is beginning to show results. As we destroy his rancherias, burn his winter supplies, and take his horses, we are driving him to seek the reservation. It does us absolutely no good to chase a band of raiders for a hundred miles. It wears out our men and our horses. We have already proven in the plains that if we take away the Indians food supplies, deprive him of the mobility of his horses, he must seek the refuge of the reservations to survive ... he must accept peace.”

  “Have you heard the old adage about the Apaches and horses, sir?” Jake Cutter had been standing well back from the half-circle of officers, listening to the run of talk as he drank lemonade and wished it was diluted with whiskey. He strolled into their midst after voicing his question.

  Even in his dress uniform, he exuded a kind of loose indifference to military dictates. The black, unkempt thickness of his hair curled into his collar, and the uneven lines of his face gave him a roughness that was out of place amidst all this polish.

  “I don’t believe I know the one to which you refer,” the colonel admitted with a summing look that found Cutter of skeptical worth.

  “It’s claimed that a white man can ride a horse until it drops; then a Mexican can come along and ride that same horse another twenty miles before it quits; finally an Apache will come by and ride the same horse thirty more miles, and then he’ll kill it and eat it—and walk two hundred miles.”

  “The point, sir?” the colonel inquired.

  “These Indians aren’t the Comanches and Mescal-eros we fought in Texas. You take away an Apache’s horse and he’s twice as dangerous on the ground. I’d rather fight two hundred mounted warriors than a dozen Apaches on foot.”

  “They are masters at camouflage and skilled, silent stalkers,” the Yankee-bora colonel conceded. “But what are you suggesting? That we are not achieving our objective of forcing the Apaches into a peace treaty by our destruction of their supplies?”

  “I think we are all aware that the Apache bands we have struck so far have not been the ones that have been committing most of the depredations in this area.” Cutter was careful how he answered the question, not openly opposing the present plan. “The Apaches we want are followers of
Juh and Geronimo, and they spend half their time on the other side of the border in Mexico laughing at us. And I wouldn’t be a damned bit surprised if it was one of that bunch who took Mrs. Wade.” No argument came from the rest of the officers. “And the only way you’ll get those boys to honor a treaty is to beat them in a fight— a military victory they’ll respect.”

  Colonel Bettendorf cleared his throat. “I believe we have forgotten that this is a ball. That’s a waltz the band is playing. Where is Mrs. Bettendorf? Do any of you see her?”

  Balls had never been much in Cutter’s line, any more than polishing brass and playing politics were. He walked back to the punch bowl and left his cup with the trader’s ringlet-haired daughter, then left the commissary and ultimately the post.

  An hour later he was riding his horse up to the hitching post in front of Lomas Cherry’s house, strategically situated on a back alley between two Silver City saloons. The inside lights gave off a rosy glow behind the curtained windows as Cutter climbed the steps to the porch. Someone plunked on an untuned piano, the sour notes distorting the melody. A laugh came from an upper story of the frame house, whose gingerbread seemed oddly out of place in this rugged clime.

  Cutter opened the door and walked in, slapping the trail dust off his blue uniform with his gloves. Two slick-haired, spit-polished miners sat in the gawdy parlor with its red-rose-patterned rug and red-rose brocade sofas and gilded mirrors that endlessly reflected the vibrant pink shade. Cutter ducked his head to avoid the huge crystal chandelier, gilded as well, which was too large for the room.

  “Ello, Cutter.” The heavily painted woman at the piano smiled when she saw him, but lost interest quickly. “If you want Cherry, she’s upstairs. A guy gave Nita a little trouble. The kid’s gotta toughen up. The game’s in back . . . as always.”

  His glance went to the stairwell, but Cutter continued through the parlor to a door half hidden by a fringed and tasseled drape. “I think I’ll play a little poker.”