High above the soldiers, the slurred whistled warning of a male meadowlark was heard. Niko listened as it was repeated. He waited for the soldiers to be alert to the danger that was coming to them. In his mind he smiled when no whisper was passed from man to man. He should know that the Anglos would not realize that a meadowlark was a ground hunter and could not be above them.
The place was close, then, and he had to be ready.
With his lips he tasted the first fat drops of rain. A woman’s rain, for had it been male, the lightning and thunder would have shaken the earth.
Niko had to block the thought of Woman of Sorrow from his mind. She had no place in his life. In the deepest corners he heard the whispers that her life was now entwined with his. And he fought its telling, just as he fought the pain that once more surfaced.
His head bumped against rock. Now he opened his eyes to see that most of the soldiers had disappeared up ahead, through the deep cut in the rocks. He did not listen for cries. He knew there would be none. The Netdahee made no noises unless they wished to. Like the shadow cast by the drifting cloud, so would they move over their land.
The roaring blood in his ears made it impossible for Niko to hear. He strained anyway, listening for the thuds of falling bodies. Not a whisper of sound reached him.
Was he mistaken? Had they forsaken him? Would not his brethren come to free him?
At the head of the column, Eric lifted his arm to halt the soldiers. He half turned in his saddle and looked at the grizzled-bearded private behind him. Ben Holloward was a veteran of Indian wars. His drinking prevented him from rising in rank, but when he repeated his warning, Eric had to listen.
“I’m a-tellin’ you it’s too damn quiet. They’re out an’ around. You give the order to draw weapons, Corporal. Ain’t a man jack of us gettin’ back to Bowie otherwise.”
Eric scanned the rocks on either side, his gaze climbing high as the stone rose. He saw nothing amiss, but he could not dismiss Ben’s warning, either. “Draw your weapons,” he ordered softly, waiting until the order was repeated, man by man. He couldn’t see what lay before them, for the trail curved beyond the rocks.
Damn Angie Wallace and her brother for getting him into this mess! He shot a quick look over his shoulder at Grant Cowan. The man hadn’t uttered a single word. But Eric saw that he, too, had drawn his gun.
“Private, pass word along to Hennisee to secure the prisoner’s horse to his. The mare should be tied tightly. I don’t want to lose that buck if we are engaged in an attack.”
Eric waited, batting off the flies and mosquitoes that came swarming from the swampy area of the reservation’s lowland. He had five months left of his enlistment, and he fully intended to have a promotion at the end of that time. Bringing in the Apache for attacking a white man without encountering problems would look good on his record.
Uneasy, he kept looking around, but saw nothing but the dreary rise of stone. Water began collecting on the brim of his cap, and he felt the rain slide down his neck, soaking both neckerchief and shirt. Thankful it was a gentle rain and not one of the wild, violent storms that came up suddenly, he welcomed the cooling of his heated skin beneath his uniform.
Word came back finally of a delay. The horsehair bridle’s reins were too short to be tied to Private Hennisee’s saddle.
“Then pass word back that I shall hold him personally responsible for the safety of our prisoner.” Once more Eric looked around, and then he gave the order to move out.
Once around the boulders, the trail widened enough for two to ride abreast. Eric rode with Ben at his side, keeping the horses to a walk. The corporal sensed the unease that had the men behind him—men he was responsible for—fretting and sweating. His own nerves were on edge as he recalled all the black eyes of the Apache women and the children staring at him back at the camp.
The reassuring sound of harness jingling as his men formed up two by two behind him made him relax his vigilance. He gave the order to holster their weapons, and kicked his horse into a trot.
They were nearly at the border of reservation lands when a call went up from the end of the column. “Hennisee’s missing!”
Already being taken southward across the reservation, Niko neither heard nor cared. Four of the Netdahee rode with him. The others drove a small herd of horses behind them so that no tracks would remain when the mud dried but those of many horses moving with the wind.
They had cut him free of his bonds, but Niko laid his body against that of his black, his fingers woven tightly into the horse’s thick mane. Pain rode with him, great waves of it, so that he couldn’t sit up and ride. He did not call out, or ask for help. It was not the way.
“It’s not the right way, Mary,” Angie found herself repeating again. The woman refused to answer her, just kept her mules to their plodding walk, heading, it appeared, for a small grove of piñon.
Angie sensed that something was not right, but the unease that settled around her did not make her fear it. She wasn’t at all surprised when Mary brought the buckboard to a stop beneath the trees.
“Here we will wait.”
“Wait? What are we waiting for, Mary?”
“You see.”
And with that Angie had to be content. She pushed her wet hair back from her face, realizing for the first time that she had lost several hairpins. For some reason, it didn’t matter to her what she looked like.
She heard the horses before she saw them coming across the rocky field. With the lessening rain, she was able to make out the riders leading the herd of horses.
She rounded on the seat and gripped Mary’s arm. “It’s Niko, isn’t it? They managed to set him free.”
“The Apache will never be free.”
“Oh, Mary, that’s not true. There are many white people who are sympathetic to the Indian’s plight. There are men and women, too, who speak of the injustice. But please, tell me how they got him away. No one did anything back in the camp.”
“The Inde’ speak many ways. Niko is one among the Netdahee, but their numbers are few now.”
“What is this word in-de?” Angie needed to keep her talking. She was desperate for a distraction to help her fight the rising excitement she felt as the horses drew nearer.
“Inde’ is the name of the people,” Mary answered, her eyes directed straight ahead.
“And the other, the name you said Niko was?”
“Netdahee. As white-eyes have their soldiers, the Apache have their own.”
A soldier? Niko was a soldier for his people. Angie twisted in her seat, both hands gripping the low wooden side of the buckboard seat.
Dezyo, riding with Niko behind the others, signaled the ones behind to veer off with the horses. He leaned over to nudge his friend to sit as they appreached the wagon. He knew the cost to Niko to move at all. But what man wished to have a woman see him weak?
Angie ignored the others. Her eyes were for Niko. She searched his face, seeing the bruise that darkened one broad cheekbone, the blood still running from a cut over his eye, his mouth and jaw swollen from fists. Rain had plastered his hair to his head, and his headband was gone. A jagged rip revealed the skin of his shoulder. Everywhere she looked, there were livid marks showing. But she had seen the kicks from army boots, and she knew these surface wounds didn’t matter.
One of his arms was wrapped around his waist, and she saw his struggle to sit upright on his horse.
“Niko?”
“No. You will wait for him to speak,” Mary warned. “Get down. It is not good for a woman to sit in the presence of the Netdahee.”
“But you and your sister sat. You allowed me to sit in his presence in the wickiup.”
“We are of the people, and you were our guest. Now you are Anglo, and there are his warriors with him. Show him your respect. He will honor you for it.”
Niko saw her climb down, and stand proud beside the wagon, waiting for him. If he could have moved his lips to
do his bidding, he would have smiled to see her obey Mary Ten Horses.
His vision was clouded, but he saw that the woman’s rain had darkened her hair so that the sun’s long rays did not shine within the tangled curls that fell to her shoulders. His gaze touched the livid mark on her cheek, and his pain dissolved into rage that he had not moved fast enough to prevent its happening.
“Come, iszáń. I would talk.” He wished to hold out his hand to her, to show her that she had nothing to fear from him, but the effort of speaking took too much from him. Dezyo and the others were distanced, and Mary turned to watch the rain dripping from the leaves. None would hear him but her.
“How did you get away from them? They didn’t let you go. They’ll hunt you now, won’t they?”
“Our women only speak after—”
“And Mary has taken great pains to remind me that I am Anglo.”
“To my regret.” The words slipped out from the buried place within his thoughts. He knew it was the pain that forced the words free. The pain, and the need he had to leave this place.
Angie couldn’t stop herself from touching the arm that held his waist. “I’m sorry. So sorry this happened to you because of me. I never meant to bring you trouble. I only wanted to find a way to help.”
“Your eyes are dark with the sorrow in your heart.” He leaned down to speak to her ears alone, unable to hold himself upright. “I wanted to see you before I leave.”
She looked away then, toward the south. “Mexico. That’s where you’ll go. And your people will have one less to protect them.”
“Mary tells you many things. She cannot speak for me. Go from us. Do not come back. Your child—”
She looked at him with stricken eyes, silencing him. He reached out to touch her hair. “Woman of Sorrow, I have brought you pain. There is no child now.”
Angie felt herself drawn into his dark eyes, and for the first time, she shared with another the loss of her daughter.
“My little girl, Amy was her name, died after I lost our farm. My brother wasn’t all wrong. She died from hunger.”
“Your people?”
“Did they help me? No.” Tell him all of it, a little voice urged. “They wanted nothing to do with me after my husband died. You see,” she said in a voice laden with bitterness, “I was ill after I buried Tim. My kind neighbors came to take care of me and my baby. Kind, nosy neighbors who went through his papers and discovered that the man I had married and borne a child for was an octoroon.”
She closed her eyes, unable to bear the disgust she would see in his.
“What is this word—octoroon?”
“They found out Tim’s blood wasn’t pure white. His family tree revealed a woman who had been a slave.” She opened her eyes then. “Now do you understand? He was as blond as I was, as fair of skin, and they called him—”
“Not say the ugly words of the Anglo tongue. I have been called much.”
“Niko!”
He glanced over to see that Dezyo had called the warning of time growing short. He would have been discovered missing by now. The soldiers would ride back to the camp with their demand for him. Already the other warriors would have gone back to the camp, ready to fight against any who would harm the old women and children.
“I would have a thing from you,” he whispered.
She saw that he was struggling to draw his leg up. “What? Let me help you.”
“There is a knife in my moccasin.”
Angie fought the thought of his leaving, of her never seeing him again, as she drew the small knife from its sheath and lifted it to his hand.
“No. It is for you. But first you will gift me with a small curl of your hair.”
His eyes held hers with a steady gaze full of unspoken things. All the words that filled his heart would remain there. Time did not allow them. But he would not go without taking a part of her with him.
The long moments stretched into a tension that sent heat flooding Angie. She moved to do as he asked, biting her lower lip not to ask the hundred questions that hungered for answers. He had not cursed her, or condemned her for the accident of Tim’s birth or the death of her child. And when she handed over the curl she had sliced from her hair and saw that he tucked it inside his shirt, she felt the first of the healing she had sought begin.
“Don’t let them catch you, Niko. I’ll pray for your safety.”
“And I will call upon my spirits to protect you always.”
She begged with her gaze to know if she would see him again.
He longed to tell her he would come back for her.
There had been no shame to see her after he had been beaten, as he had feared.
Niko said nothing more. He urged his horse away from her and did not look back. To see her again was to court the need to keep her with him.
He was a true renegade now. Branded as such by the army. Never would he walk in freedom upon the lands of his fathers.
But he would come back. This he swore.
For burning into his back were the eyes of a woman who looked upon him as a man, and only a man. A woman who wore sorrow in her eyes. His people knew the loss of one child could be replaced with another of joy. There was love in the heart of this Anglo woman.
Yes, he would be back. Well and strong once more, ready to ease the hunger in his loins. For there was hunger within the woman, and it called strongly to him as the distance widened.
Yes, he would return.
Chapter 6
Angie should have expected it. Major Sumner refused to see her, refused to listen to Mary. The private brought word that it was an army matter now, regardless of what had caused it, and that being the case, nothing she said mattered.
Mary made no promises that she would try to talk to the major. Angry and disappointed, Angie began to look for her brother. She couldn’t put off dealing with Grant any longer.
She walked across the parade ground to the sutler’s, but Grant wasn’t among the men inside. Angie was puzzled by the way they suddenly grew silent and watched her. A feeling of revulsion overcame her as she left the post’s store. She dismissed it outside, as twilight fell, thinking they had already heard what had happened from the returning soldiers.
And likely blamed her.
Angie held her head high. She refused to accept all the blame for what had happened. The past had taught her that she couldn’t change the way people thought, or alter their beliefs. She was too exhausted to try.
The livery offered the best chance to find Grant, and it was there that she headed. She wasn’t sure what attracted her attention across the open ground to the commandant’s office, but as she looked, Eric stepped outside. He’d know where Grant was.
“Eric!” She called him again, then walked rapidly, once more repeating his name when he didn’t acknowledge her. Angie lifted her skirt and petticoats and began to run to intercept him. “Eric, please, wait for me!”
She ignored the attention she was drawing from men who stopped and stared, determined to find out why Eric refused to answer her.
“Corporal Linley, a moment, if you please.” She planted herself in front of him, demanding his attention.
“Mrs. Wallace,” he answered in a curt voice.
He couldn’t meet her searching gaze, and despite the fading light, Angie knew that Grant had told him about Tim. It was just as well. After his behavior today, she wanted nothing to do with his narrowminded cruelty.
“I only want to know where my brother is, Corporal.”
“After the major chewed him out for instigating an incident that brought the loss of—”
“Someone was killed?”
“Private Hennisee was injured when the prisoner escaped. Thanks to you, Mrs. Wallace. As for your brother, he’s long gone from here. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to see how the soldier is getting on.”
He brushed past her, and Angie let him go. She closed her eyes against the d
isgust she felt sure was in his.
Once she had defended herself, trying to protect her innocent child against a rigid social code. Her defense went unheeded by one and all. People condemned her for loving the man Tim had been and in so doing condemned her child to die.
Lingering was no longer a choice. She’d have to find a way back to the ranch on her own. There was only one who would help her—Mary Ten Horses.
Mary had her own room attached to the commandant’s quarters. It was here that she led Angie, arguing with her to stay the night. Angie refused, asking only for the use of her buckboard to get home. Reluctantly Mary agreed, even coming with her to harness the mules.
“I’ll bring them back tomorrow,” Angie promised as she slapped the long reins against the tired mules’ backs.
“I will see you before the sun greets the day,” Mary muttered.
Angie couldn’t get the mules to move beyond a plodding walk. Her mind was filled with the events of the day, and she was glad her thoughts were taken up with them, for it held fear away to travel alone in the dark.
Grant’s ranch was a good two hours’ ride from the fort, but it seemed more like five. She startled at every night noise, giving in to the worry that began to plague her that Mary was right, that she should have waited until morning.
But all too soon the lights of the house shone, a most welcome beacon, and even the mules, scenting water and food, picked up their pace.
When she guided the buckboard into the yard and set the pole brake, Angie thought it strange that no one answered her call. Anxious now, she hurried to climb down, ripping her hem when it caught on the rough board.
“Grant! Kathleen!” The door remained closed. Angie looked around the yard, but there was no unseen terror in the shadows. She had to force herself to go to the door.
“Kathleen. It’s me, Angie.”
She heard the scrape of a chair inside. So someone was there, someone had heard her. She waited impatiently for the bolt to be lifted, shivering as the mountain coolness made its presence felt.
Apache Fire Page 4