by Janet Dailey
Still, Hannah said to them in Spanish, “Ojo Caliente is a good place.” The area of the hot springs was a favorite stopping place for the tribe.
Gatita looked at her. “If place is good, then let the yellow legs take pindahs there and leave this land to us.”
Saddened by the words, Hannah stepped back. She knew that the fate of the Apaches was already sealed. Their nomadic life of raiding, foraging, and warring might continue for a time, but it couldn’t last. They would either be confined to reservations or vanish from the earth, as so many of the eastern tribes had. The two cultures, white and Apache, were too different to coexist. The Apaches would have to be assimilated or die.
There was a stir of activity along the forming escort detail. Stephen cantered up and dismounted beside her, suspicion and displeasure darkening his expression at finding her by the prisoners. He caught her arm and drew her away from the wagon.
“Were you talking to them?”
“Yes.” Hannah bridled at the censure in his tone.
“What did you say?”
A deep bitterness welled in her heart at his question, and she hated Stephen for asking it. More than anything it revealed his loss of faith in her. “What does it matter? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.” She stopped when he did, unable to look at him.
His hand fell away from her arm in a telling gesture. The escort detail was mounted and ready; the driver and the armed guard sat on the wagon seat while the mules dozed in their harness.
“Hannah.” Many things were in his voice, above all a longing for the woman she had been, but the year she’d been away stretched widely between them. There seemed to be no way to bridge it. Stephen could not bring himself to forget the past and build on the present. When Hannah looked at him, she saw the conflict, the wanting and the rejecting of the dirty piece of candy. Finally he spoke. “When we get these Apaches out of here and on the reservation where they belong, things will be better. They won’t be around to remind you of that time. You’ll be able to put it behind you.”
Hannah smiled faintly, finding irony in the assurance that was given to her but needed by him. And she knew that he was still trying to whitewash her. “Of course.”
“I’ll be back in a week.” After a visible hesitation, Stephen bent and brushed a kiss across her cheek, the first physical affection he’d shown her in a week. A moment later, he mounted his horse and rode toward the head of the column.
A slap of the reins awakened the mules and they leaned into their collars, the trace chains jingling. With wheels squeaking, the wagon rumbled out of the yard, surrounded by its cordon of mounted soldiers. Hannah caught one last glimpse of Gatita before the wagon rolled out of sight. When she turned to go back to her quarters, she saw Cutter watching her from the ramada of the post headquarters. She smiled and nodded to him, feeling a fine run of warmth at the interest he showed in her, an interest that held no hint of judgment. He touched his hat to her.
Since her return, Hannah hadn’t taken an active role in post life, mostly because Stephen wanted her to stay in the background, but partly because she hoped that with the passage of time she wouldn’t be treated as such an oddity and looked at askance. With Stephen away, however, her days would drag with nothing to do, so she resolved to begin participating again. She invited the officers’ wives to come to afternoon tea two days later.
As she was going through her wardrobe to find her blue dimity day dress, Hannah noticed that her brown satin gown wasn’t there. She checked the trunk and discovered that her silver shawl was missing. A further search of the rest of her things revealed that more items were gone—a dreadful glass brooch an aunt had given her, a chipped tortoiseshell comb, two old skirts she’d kept for the material, and a few other items. Except for the brown satin, all of them were things she had seldom or never worn or which she disliked.
“Delancy,” Hannah called, and went to the kitchen to question the striker.
Cimmy Lou was with him, hurriedly licking away the crumbs from a ladyfinger. “I brung yore linens, Miz Wade.” She nodded to the stack of serviettes on the table.
“Thank you.” It was an absent acknowledgment as her attention focused on the striker. “Delancy, I can’t find my brown satin gown with the gold threading. There are some other things missing, too. Do you know anything about them?” She caught the look so quickly exchanged between the soldier-servant and the laundress. Her suspicions were immediately roused.
It took him a moment to phrase his answer. “I found it in the garbage one mornin’, all ripped. I mentioned it t’the majuh an’ ... he said he knew ‘bout it.”
“I see.” Hannah frowned. “Thank you, Delancy.” As she turned to leave, she noticed a yellow glitter from beneath one edge of Cimmy Lou Hooker’s shawl. She stopped. “Isn’t that my brooch you’re wearing?”
Cimmy Lou’s hand covered it protectively. “The majuh gave it to me,” she insisted.
“And my shawl, the hair comb, my skirts, and all the rest—did he give you those, too?” Hannah questioned, stunned that Stephen would do that.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But why?” She hadn’t meant to ask; the question just popped out.
A secretive look stole over the laundress’s face, turning her expression very smug and knowing. “I guess he jest wanted t’give me a little somethin’ on the side. Mebbe you should ask him.”
“Yes.”
When Hannah walked out of the kitchen, her cheeks were flaming at the implication behind the answer. Every army wife knew that if she didn’t accompany her husband to his posted assignment, he would seek out some fallen woman to satisfy his carnal needs. Such straying was never mentioned. Even if Hannah never had real evidence of it, in her heart she knew. Men were lusting creatures; they couldn’t be expected to remain faithful. Hannah knew all that, but to be confronted with it was quite another thing.
By the time the ladies arrived for tea, she had regained her composure. They gathered in the parlor and Hannah poured the tea. The order of service followed the rank of their husbands. Hannah passed the first cup of tea to the colonel’s wife, Ophelia Bettendorf, and the second went to the captain’s wife, Maude Goodson. Since Lieutenant Digby had seniority over Lieutenant Mitchell, Grace Digby was served before Sadie Mitchell, and, as hostess, the last cup was for herself.
The chatter began with regimental gossip concerning other companies of the Ninth stationed in various New Mexico forts. Some of the names were new to Hannah, so a lot of what was said was meaningless to her.
“I thought he was such a personable man, didn’t you, Mrs. Wade?” At the blank look she received from Hannah, Ophelia Bettendorf prompted, “Surely you remember meeting Lieutenant Austin from Boston?”
“No, I don’t.” Hannah sipped at her tea, holding the fragile cup in one hand and its china saucer in the other.
“That’s true, she wasn’t here. That was after the Apaches had carried her off,” Maude Goodson recalled, and turned to Hannah. “You were with them such a dreadfully long time, my dear.”
“Yes, I was,” she agreed quietly, and set her cup aside to pick up the china teapot. The contrast between her sun-browned hand and the pastel-flowered pot was marked. “More tea, anyone?”
“Please.” Little, doll-like Maude Goodson offered her cup. “I’ve been meaning to suggest that you should bathe your skin in lemon juice. That’s what I do whenever I get too much sun. It whitens your skin really wonderfully.”
“I’ll try it.” But Hannah wondered if the woman realized how many lemons it would take.
“Is it true that they took all your clothes?” Grace Digby stared at her with wide, wondering eyes.
Little shocked sounds came from the others at the temerity of her question, but Hannah noticed that not a single one of them objected as they waited with bated breaths for her answer. She suddenly had a very real sense of why they’d come today—to gamer juicy tidbits to gossip about later, and to voyeuristically experience what had happened, to her
and thank God it wasn’t them. Of them all, Maude Goodson was likely the only one who felt even a modicum of pity and a desire to help.
“A lot of things that happened are too unpleasant to recall.” A stiff politeness masked her bitter anger. “I’d rather put all that behind me.”
Ophelia Bettendorf looked down her long nose and gave Hannah a false smile. “I must say, my dear, I was surprised that Major Wade would leave you so soon after your ordeal. Considering how long you’ve been apart, I should think he would want to spend every minute he can with you.”
Hannah was not surprised that others had noticed how little time Stephen spent with her. He always managed to stay busy at something until after retreat had sounded, thus avoiding her and the problems they were having.
“Duty always comes first with Stephen. That’s what makes him a good officer.” She remembered when she would have said that with pride—the good, understanding wife praising her husband. Now, she was making excuses for his conduct. “After all, Captain Goodson is on patrol and Captain Cutter just came in, so it was Stephen’s turn.”
“But the colonel informed him that, under the circumstances, the major should have the time with you, and Lieutenant Digby would have charge of the detail. But your husband insisted that he go.”
Hannah hadn’t known, and Ophelia Bettendorf had guessed that. More separation was not the answer to their difficulty, yet Stephen had chosen it. Hurt twisted through her, raw and angry. “My husband would never allow his personal life to take precedence over his obligations to the army.” None of them were fooled by her response, and they covertly exchanged snide glances. Hannah saw the looks and raged silently.
Plump Grace Digby reached for another of the dainty sponge cakes. “These are delicious, Mrs. Wade, I must have your recipe.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Delancy for that. I didn’t make them.”
“You never have done much cooking, have you, my dear?” The colonel’s wife took a delicate sip of her tea.
“Not in the past, although I do make a very good tortilla now. And I learned to cook a very tasty thick stew by filling a deer’s stomach with blood, chili peppers, and wild onions.” Hannah, saw the shock and revulsion on their faces and didn’t care. It was what they had come to hear.
“You didn’t eat it?” Grace Digby’s ladyfinger was laid aside, only one bite taken.
“Of course. And the next time you have rabbit, you should try partially roasting it before skinning and gutting it.” She deliberately gave them all the worst examples, not leaving out a single lurid detail.
Later, Hannah watched them leave. They were barely out the door before their heads were together and their tongues were wagging, but she found no satisfaction in the sight. Sighing, Hannah turned away, fighting depression and loneliness.
Stephen’s return did not bring any improvement to their troubled marriage. He went through the motions, pretending that everything was fine, but he never touched her or mentioned the past year. Not that they were together very much; but when they were he rarely looked at her, and when he did, Hannah saw what he was thinking and remembering.
His return coincided with a step-up of Apache activity in the area. Their favorite targets were the ore trains, the twelve and fourteen-horse teams hauling wagons loaded with silver ore from the mining camps in the Mogollons. Fort Bayard was in a constant state of flux, responding to reports of ambush or near-ambush.
One evening just before retreat, a wounded outrider from an ore train reached the fort. A mounted detachment was dispatched to the scene. Hannah wasn’t surprised to see Stephen at the head of it. It was becoming clear to her that Stephen was obsessed with settling what he considered his private score with the Apache.
It was pitch black, shadows pressing in from all sides as the column of riders walked their blowing and winded horses along the gravel track up a high canyon. Other than the striking of metal horseshoes on rough stone, the only sound was the far-off yip of a coyote crying to the lonely sliver of moon. All else was quiet, a mountain chill breathing down on them.
Hooker leaned forward in his McClellan, calling in a low voice to advise Major Wade, “The rider said the Apaches hit ’em along that spot in the road where the fallen chimney rock is. That’d be less than a quarter of a mile.”
“It’s quiet.” Lieutenant Digby rode beside Wade, his anxious gaze darting into the lurking shadows. “What do you think, Major?”
“The Apaches might have broken contact. They seldom fight at night.” Stephen turned in his saddle and looked back down the double line of riders. “Stay alert.”
Word passed among the troopers that they were approaching the ambush site. Stephen wished that they had more than a ghosting of light from the moon to alleviate this utter blackness before them. He strained to hear any misplaced sound, to catch the smell of smoke or gunpowder.
About four hundred yards farther down the path, his chestnut pricked its ears at an object ahead of them. Stephen could make out little in the trail. His horse snorted, disliking something, and he reined in, stopping the column with an upraised hand. A large and long black shape loomed before them, its dark outline vaguely showing against the lighter-colored ground. He lifted the flap on his holster and loosened his gun.
“Hello, the wagon!” Stephen called in a low, strong voice across the intervening distance. For a long span of seconds, there was only silence. Stephen kicked his horse forward while pulling out his service revolver.
The wagon had been overturned, lying on its side and blocking the trail. From the well of darkness behind it came a low moan. Stephen directed his horse toward the sound as he continued to scan the dark tumble of rocks and brush. The rest of the column advanced behind him.
The closer to the wagon he came, the more he could make out. A horse lay dead in the harness, its teammate obviously having been cut free, and the wagon had half a dozen arrows projecting from it. Stephen dismounted, catching the acrid odor of powder smoke lingering in the air, and passed the reins of his horse to Digby. Another moan, louder than the first, came from the other side of the wagon, near the front wheels. Stephen found the man propped against the undercarriage, half-conscious.
“I’ve found one of them—alive,” he called in that same low but clear voice. “Check around, Sergeant.”
While the troopers fanned out under Hooker’s direction to comb the surrounding area, Stephen crouched beside the wounded man. The faint moonlight glistened on the barrel of a carbine, lying across the man’s legs.
“Where are you hurt, mister?” Stephen picked up the carbine, and felt the man’s weak attempt to resist slacken at his words.
The man’s head lolled, his mouth slack, his eyes opening, white-ringed. “Curly . . . made it.” His breathy laugh became a cough. “Arrow in my. . . shoulder.” From the frothy sound of his breath, Stephen suspected that it had pierced a lung. “Bullet in . . . leg. My ribs, maybe. Don’t. . . know.”
The arrow was still lodged in his left shoulder, the feathered end of the shaft broken off. Stephen left it alone and searched for the leg wound, hampered by the darkness and the deep shadows. “What happened? Where are the others?” Warm, sticky blood oozed from a hole in the man’s right thigh. Stephen used his kerchief to make a tourniquet.
“Hit us. Came out of . . . the rocks. Five, maybe six of ’em.” Pain and weakness took the man’s breath, turning his voice hoarse and making it waver. “Gillis in first wagon ... got it right away. The ‘paches jumped on horses . . . stole wagon. Irish and Shaughnessy took cover in . . . rocks when wagon turned ... on me. Held ’em off.”
“Take it easy.” Stephen came to his feet and moved away, his own weapon and the man’s carbine in his hands. Lieutenant Digby still sat his horse nearby. “Have someone see to this man.”
“Two mo’ men over here, suh,” a trooper called from the vicinity of the boulder tumble. “Both is dead, suh.”
Chunks of ore from the overturned wagon littered the ground, ready to
trip the unwary. Stephen picked his way through the jumble, past the dead and bloating horse to the top of the mine road, where Hooker joined him. Stephen looked into the night with a brooding restlessness. They were always too late on the scene, arriving long after the battle; they were never able to catch the bastards.
The impatient edge was in his voice when he spoke. “Get that wagon righted. We’ll use it to transport the wounded driver to the fort. And send half a dozen of your men ahead to see if they can locate the second wagon and the body of its driver. In this rough country, the Apaches couldn’t have driven it far. They were after the horses. Somewhere up ahead they must have cut them loose and left the wagon.”
“Yes, suh. Suh, do you want me to pick up the trail of the ‘paches an’ send a detail in pursuit?”
“It’s a waste of time, Sergeant.” Stephen was curt. “You can’t follow their trail until daylight. By then they’ll have a six-hour lead. No, sergeant, we won’t pursue.”
“Yes, suh.” Hooker saluted and swung away.
Sound carried a long way on the night air of the dry mountain desert. From some distance away in the canyon reaches came the whinny of a horse. The sound caused both the white officer and the colored sergeant to pause.
“From the north, suh, maybe two, three miles as the crow flies,” Hooker guessed. “It could be one of the team of horses runnin’ loose.”
“It could,” Stephen agreed. His head was cocked at a listening angle for a second longer; then he stirred. “Leave five men here and mount the rest, Sergeant.”
An hour later, the patrol still wound its way through the rough canyon country, always riding as much as possible in the direction of the horse’s neigh, though their way was often blocked by dead-end canyons or unscalable cliffs. Like a signal beacon, the horse had given out its frightened call at irregular intervals. Its shrill whinny again shattered the stillness. This time it was very close, only yards ahead. No spoken command, only an upraised hand, brought the double-file column to a halt. Leather creaked under the shifting weights of the troopers in their saddles as Stephen stared into the darkness, listening and trying to gauge the situation.