Chase the Wind (Apache Runaway Book 2)

by Madeline Baker

  Moving on, he passed the Rock Springs water hole, and Foxtail Creek, and every mile took him closer to the land of his birth until, at last, he saw the high purple cliffs that enclosed the valley that had once sheltered Kayitah’s band.

  He urged the mare into a lope. She was a fine animal, with a deep chest, and nostrils to drink the wind. The fact that he had stolen her from a bluecoat made her all the more valuable.

  His heart pounded with anticipation as he reached the narrow passage that led into Rainbow Canyon. Reining the mare to a halt, he took a deep breath, his nostrils filling with the remembered scent of earth and sage and pine.

  He closed his eyes, and memories of the past filled his heart and soul…

  It was here that he had taken his first steps; here that Kayitah had taught him to ride, to hunt and track. To be a warrior.

  It was here that he had met Geronimo; here that he had made his first kill.

  Loosing a deep sigh, he rode into the heart of the canyon. Nothing remained of the rancheria save a few stones blackened by fire and smoke. Everything of value had been destroyed or carried away by the bluecoats; what was left had been obliterated by time.

  Dismounting in the place where Kayitah’s lodge had once stood, Chase unsaddled the buckskin, then turned the mare loose to forage on the rich green grass that spread like a blanket over the canyon floor.

  Spreading his saddle blanket on the ground, he sat with his back against a cottonwood tree, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky, as he listened to the night, to the serenade of the crickets and the soft sighing of the wind as it whispered good night to the trees.

  And there, crying in the wind, he heard the voices of those long dead. Welcome home, ciye, they sang. Welcome home, my son.

  He closed his eyes and memories assailed him once more: the pungent scent of meat roasting over an open cook fire, the sound of children playing, Alope’s smile as she welcomed him home, the look of pride on his father’s face when he put away his childhood name and became a man, the love in Clarai’s eyes when he asked for her hand in marriage…

  He felt the sharp sting of tears as the good memories were swallowed up by the horrors that had come after…the battles that had been fought as the bluecoats pursued them, relentless as winter-starved wolves. He had fought for his life beneath the scorching summer sun and in the bitter cold of winter. He had been wounded numerous times, had taken numerous lives. He had seen his friends and his loved ones killed—shot, knifed, hanged. He had seen children trampled to death beneath the iron-shod hooves of the soldiers’ horses. He had held Clarai in his arms while her life’s blood poured from a bayonet wound in her breast. And he had vowed he would never surrender, never forgive, never love again.

  And then Gatewood had taken the field, accompanied by Tom Horn and his Apache scouts.

  Chase fisted the tears from his eyes, sorrow replaced by hatred as he thought of Chatto and the other Apaches who had scouted for the army.

  In the summer of 1886, Kayitah had surrendered. By November of that year, four hundred and ninety-eight Apaches had arrived in Florida as prisoners of war. Less than a hundred were warriors. It was there, far from the land of his birth, that Kayitah had died, his heart broken, his spirit crushed.

  From Florida, the Apache had been sent to Mount Vernon Barracks. To the dismay of their parents, one hundred and twelve Apache children had been sent to the Indian School at Carlisle. Thirty died there; twelve had been returned to the reservation because of sickness. In October of 1894, the Apaches, now numbering less than three hundred, of which only fifty were able-bodied men, had been sent to Fort Sill.

  With an effort, Chase wiped the bitter memories from his mind. The wind, cold now, stirred the leaves in the trees and in their quiet rustling, he heard his father’s voice echoing the welcome words, Welcome home, ciye. Welcome home.

  He spent a week in the valley, and each day felt his spirit grow stronger. It was good to be here, to contemplate the lessons he had been taught in childhood, to remember the people he had loved and lost, to recall the ancient stories of the People. He walked along the riverbank and swam in its chill water. Occasionally, he found an arrowhead buried in the sand. And always, in the back of his mind, he wondered about the mother he had never known. Had she been dark or fair, pretty or plain? Why had she left him? He tried to remember what his father had said about the woman he called Golden Dove, but Kayitah had been closemouthed about the white woman he had taken to wife, saying only that she had harbored no love for the Apache and that, when given the choice, she had gone back to her own people.

  Chase gazed into the depths of the slow-moving river. He was a grown man, yet it rankled deep inside that his own mother had abandoned him. Of all the ghosts that haunted him, his mother’s betrayal was hardest to bear.

  Tomorrow, he would ride out of the valley in hopes of finding answers to the questions that plagued him.

  * * * * *

  Chase urged the mare into a lope, a sense of exultation riding with him. According to the last man he had talked to, Twin Rivers was just over the far hill.

  During the previous week, he had stopped at every farm and ranch he’d come across, asking after his mother. He hadn’t told anyone who he was, just asked if they knew if a woman named Jenny still lived in Twin Rivers. He’d had the feeling that they all knew of her, but, except for the old man, they had all refused to tell him anything. Most of the people he questioned had denied knowing her. One man, more outspoken than the rest, had declared he’d be damned before he’d tell a “dirty redskin a damned thing about a decent white woman”.

  Even now, a week later, Chase could feel the anger that had surged through him at the man’s words. Dirty redskin. How often had he heard those words, always spoken with derision, always accompanied by a look of disdain? When he’d been a child, those words had hurt. As he grew older, he learned to conceal the hurt behind a mask of insolence. Later, insolence had given way to a cold and bitter rage. He had learned to hate the bluecoats who had hunted them, the black robes who had tried to steal away their religion, the white women who had come to the reservation, their pasty faces filled with pity. He had despised them all, but the young white women had been the worst. They had looked at his people, at him, as one might look at a wild animal whose spirit had been broken but might attack them at any moment.

  Would his mother look at him like that?

  He put the thought out of his mind as he topped a rise and caught his first sight of Twin Rivers. The town, located between the gently sloping hills of a verdant valley, was situated on both sides of the two rivers that had given the town its name. He saw many of the small square houses favored by the white man. Some were located within the town, others had been built on the hillsides.

  His mouth felt suddenly dry as he realized his mother might be living in one of those houses.

  Reining his horse to a halt, Chase brushed the dust from his clothes, ran his fingers through his hair. Then, shoulders squared, he urged the buckskin forward.

  It was midafternoon, and the streets were crowded. He was aware of being watched as he neared the center of town. Most of the looks were merely curious. A few were contemptuous.

  Unconsciously, Chase stroked the handle of the knife sheathed on his belt, and wished he had a rifle.

  He hesitated as he approached the sheriff’s office. No doubt the lawman would know if his mother was in town, but he didn’t want anything to do with the white man’s law. Clucking to the buckskin, he rode on down the street until he came to the general store. The man who ran the trading post on the reservation knew everyone. Perhaps the man who ran the general store possessed similar knowledge of the people who lived in town.

  Dismounting, Chase tethered his horse to the rail that ran the length of the building, then climbed the steps to the boardwalk.

  He was reaching for the latch when the door opened and he saw a young woman standing in the doorway. She wore a pale-blue dress with puffy sleeves and a full skirt. Th
e square neck, which was edged with rows of fine white lace, revealed a modest amount of smooth sun-tanned skin. Long honey-blonde curls peeked from beneath a white bonnet. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips full and pink.

  In that moment, Chase knew he had never seen anyone more beautiful.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured, and her voice moved over him, as soft and light as a summer breeze.

  With a nod, Chase took a step backward.

  And then her gaze met his. Her eyes were a luminous shade of brown, intelligent and curious, and as he stared at her, he had the strangest feeling that he knew her, that he had always known her.

  Awareness flowed between them like the ripples in a stream, and for one moment out of time, no one else existed in all the world but the two of them.

  Chase cleared his throat, trying to summon the courage to speak to her, to tell her how he felt, but before he could form the words, an older woman clad in a severe black dress stepped between them. The crow looked down her nose at him, her nose wrinkling as if she had just smelled something vile, and then she took hold of the young woman’s arm and they walked down the boardwalk together.

  The young woman glanced over her shoulder, her gaze meeting his once more, and again Chase felt the attraction that hummed between them, singing like the white man’s telegraph lines. She sent him a shy smile, her lips curving ever so slightly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and then she was lost to his sight.

  He had a sudden urge to run after her, to learn her name, hear the sound of her voice. To feel the touch of her hand on his face.

  Shaking the fanciful notion aside, Chase opened the door and entered the building. It was a large, high-ceiling room. Shelves lined the walls, counters and tables were piled high with goods.

  For a moment, he stood inside the door, staring at the bounty before him. Never in all his life had he seen such an abundance of merchandise. Unlike the trading post on the reservation, the shelves here were filled with bolts of cloth in every color imaginable. There were stacks of blankets, cowboy hats in a variety of styles and colors. Enough canned goods to feed the Apache for a year. He saw barrels of crackers and pickles and cheese, smelled the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee. There were sacks of flour and sugar and cornmeal. There were rows of ready-made dresses, shirts, pants and vests.

  He glanced at his own cotton shirt and canvas pants, both of which were badly worn. Only his moccasins were new, made by Alope shortly before she died.

  “Can I help you?”

  Chase turned to see a stooped-shouldered elderly man walking toward him. “I am looking for someone.”

  The man nodded. “I might be able to help you. Name’s Mace Carson.” Mace took in the younger man’s appearance in a quick glance. “Looks like you’ve come a fer piece.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, who might you be lookin’ fer?”

  “A woman.”

  Mace laughed. “’Fraid you’ve come to the wrong place. I got lots of things fer sale here, but no women.”

  Chase shook his head. “I am looking for a particular woman. Her name is Jenny.”

  Mace frowned. “Jenny Fallon?”

  “I do not know her last name.”

  “You a friend of hers?”

  “No.”

  Mace stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You’re Apache, ain’t ya?”

  Chase stiffened, and then he nodded. “Does she live here?”

  “That she does. Why don’t you go on down to the Red Horse Saloon and have a drink? I’ll send one of my boys out to tell Jenny you’re here.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Not long. Half hour, hour, maybe.”

  “I will wait.”

  “Maybe I oughta tell her yer name.”

  “She will not know it.”

  Mace grunted softly. “I reckon she’ll wonder who you are.”

  “I reckon,” Chase said, parroting the white man’s words.

  “Have it yer own way,” Mace said.

  “Will she meet me in the saloon?”

  Mace grinned. “No. Why don’t you come back here in an hour?”

  Feeling awkward, Chase held out his hand. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mace replied, shaking the younger man’s hand. “Tell Clem I sent you.”

  “Clem?”

  “The bartender at the Red Horse. Tell him to take care of you.”

  With a nod, Chase left the store. Taking up the reins to his horse, he walked down the street until he saw a sign with a red horse painted on it. Looping the buckskin’s reins over the hitch rail, he entered the saloon.

  The interior was dark and smoky. Chase coughed as he made his way to the bar. He had never been in a saloon before. The walls were covered in dark-red paper. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling. Round tables covered with green cloth took up a good portion of the floor. Several women wandered around the room. Even knowing it was rude, he couldn’t help staring at them. Never before had he seen women dressed in such a manner. Their brightly colored dresses were cut scandalously low in front, revealing an indecent amount of flesh.

  “What’ll it be, fella?”

  With an effort, Chase drew his gaze from a raven-haired woman clad in a bright-red dress and looked at the bartender.

  The man sighed. “You buyin’ or just lookin’?”

  “Mace Carson sent me.”

  “That right?”

  Chase nodded.

  “You want a beer?”

  Chase nodded again, wondering if the white man’s beer was anything like tiswin. Moments later, the bartender placed a glass of amber liquid in front of him.

  Taking the glass, Chase walked toward the back of the room and sat down at an empty table. What would his mother think when told that there was an Indian waiting in town to see her? Would she think it was a mistake? Or would she know that her past had finally found her? Would she acknowledge him as her son, or call him a liar and turn him away? He wondered again why she had left him, if she had ever given any thought to Kayitah and the infant she had deserted.

  He blew out a deep breath, then downed the beer. Soon, he would have the answers to the questions that had plagued him as long as he could remember.

  * * * * *

  Jenny stared at Mace Carson, her mind reeling. A young man, an Indian, looking for her. “He didn’t tell you his name?”

  Carson shook his head. “He said you wouldn’t know it. It ain’t my place to say, but he looked like trouble to me.”

  “How old would you say he is?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, early twenties, maybe. Hard to tell with Indians sometimes.”

  Feeling lightheaded, Jenny reached across the table for Ryder’s hand. “You don’t think…?”

  Ryder shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Rising, she removed her apron and ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “Do I look all right?”

  “Beautiful, as always.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Ryder grinned. “So am I. Come on, let’s get this over with. Thanks for coming, Mace.”

  “No problem. I’ll meet you at the store.”

  “Right.”

  Jenny smoothed her skirts, put on her hat. “I’m so nervous. What if it is him?”

  “One step at a time, Jenny girl,” Ryder said, opening the door. “One step at a time.”

  Pat was waiting outside, whittling idly.

  “Thanks for bringing the rig up,” Ryder said.

  Pat nodded. “Want me to drive?”

  “No.” Ryder helped Jenny onto the seat, then swung up beside her and took up the reins. He clucked to the horses, and they moved out at a brisk walk.

  “Ryder, I’m so scared.”

  “Try to relax, honey.”

  “I wish I could,” she remarked. “Oh, Ryder, what if it is him? What will Dusty think? And Dorinda?”

  “Let’s worry about one thing at a time, okay?”
<
br />   “We should have told them.”

  “There didn’t seem to be any point at the time.”

  “I know, but maybe we should have said something. What will they think now?”

  Ryder slipped his arm around Jenny’s shoulders. “I don’t know, Jenny girl. Maybe we should have told them they had a brother, but, hell, when they were young, they wouldn’t have been able to understand what happened, and then…”

  Ryder shrugged. There hadn’t seemed any point in telling the kids they had a half brother they’d never see.

  There was a lot of their past that Dusty and Dorinda didn’t know. Like the fact that Jenny had once been married to another man, or that she’d been captured by Indians on her way to join her first husband. Jenny hadn’t been keen on the idea of talking about the time she’d spent with the Apache, or discussing the fact that she had borne Kayitah a son. As for Ryder, he had a skeleton or two in his own closet that he’d just as soon forget.

  He felt Jenny’s hand tighten on his arm as they reached the outskirts of town. “We don’t have to do this,” he said as he drew rein in front of Mace Carson’s store.

  “No, I want to. I have to.”

  Alighting from the carriage, he tossed the reins over the hitch rack, then helped Jenny to the ground. “Smile.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she remarked. He’d told her that once before, she recalled, when he’d taken her to Widow Ridge to meet Hank. “Smile, honey,” he’d said. “I’m sure the Christians weren’t half so pale when they went to meet the lions.” And she’d retorted, “I’ll bet they weren’t as scared, either.”

  She took a deep breath, lifted her skirts as they climbed the stairs to the boardwalk. “Nothing to be afraid of,” she murmured, but couldn’t still the pounding of her heart as they entered the general store.

  Carson was standing just inside the door. “He’s in back,” Mace said, jerking a thumb toward the room he used for his office.

  “Thanks, Mace.” Ryder gave Jenny’s hand a squeeze. “You want me to go with you?”

  Jenny nodded. “Please.”