Apache Caress

by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress

  Tom Mooney sipped his coffee and listened. Somewhere a baby cried, and its mother soothed it with soft Apache words. Dogs barked, and the sounds echoed in the sultry Arizona night. Forester had admitted his guilt, but he had not mentioned any accomplice in those last minutes and Tom had never told Cholla about the paper candy sack. Suppose Gill was innocent and Cholla wouldn’t listen to any explanation?

  “Cholla, things are changing. You know that, and your people must change, too. That is why you ride with the Army. Outlaws like Geronimo will only get women and children on both sides killed by trying to return to the old ways that are no more.”

  Cholla shook his head. “Why is it we must conform, be just like whites or be considered worthless? Sometimes, late at night, I think of going across the border, into the mountains with my dog and my horse. That’s wild country down there. A man could live out his lifetime in the Sierra Madres as wild and free as his ancestors. I could live off the land.”

  “It would be a lonely life,” Tom said.

  “Aren’t we both lonely, brother?” Cholla’s hand paused and trembled as he patted the dog. “Somewhere maybe there is a woman who would go with me and never look back.”

  “I hope you find her,” Tom said, and threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “If she’s out there, I hope you find her. If you do, see if she has a sister for me.”

  The Apache laughed. “Don’t worry, if I ever find a woman I think is right for you, you can be sure I’ll deliver her to you as a gift.”

  Tom grinned. “You do that.”

  Cholla stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts and maybe bothered by the fact that he was part of this trek, no matter that he was under orders and that in the end it was for the best. The Apache were to be “civilized” and educated, taught skills other than hunting and raiding.

  Throughout the campgrounds, a chorus of dogs began to bark but though his ragged ears went up, Ke-’jaa did not bark. While he might snarl, he never barked. A barking dog endangered its master.

  The strangely marked stallion whinnied at the racket made by hundreds of howling dogs and pulled restlessly at its picket pin.

  Cholla looked up at the beautiful black and white paint and reassured him. “It’s all right, boy.”

  “I never did hear how you came by that horse,” Tom said.

  “See the Medicine Hat coloring?” Cholla gestured. “That coloring is thought lucky by many tribes. My friends, the Randolph family out at the Wolfs Den ranch, raise these horses and they gave me this one. His ancestor was a wild Medicine Hat stallion called Sky Climber that roamed the hills of Nevada for many years.”

  The stallion’s coloring is unusual, Tom thought. The large spot on its chest truly looked like a war shield, and the top of its head was black, making it seem as if the horse wore a black cap.

  They bedded down for the night. If Tom had known what Colonel Wade’s secret orders were, he would have warned Cholla; he would have warned all the scouts so they could escape.

  Tom was a battle-hardened veteran, but he was horrified on that hot September day when the soldiers were ordered to force all the Apaches onto the trains.

  “Sir, what about their things?” Tom had protested to Lieutenant Gillen. “What about their blankets and all that stuff? What about their horses and dogs?”

  Gillen grinned and popped a peppermint in his mouth. “Blast it! Our orders are to load Apaches, nothing else. Be reasonable, Sergeant, you don’t really think we could ship all that stuff across the country, especially all those damned dogs? Where they’re going, they don’t need horses.”

  Cholla shook his head. “You may throw me out of the Army or shoot me, Lieutenant, but I want no part of this. There’s not enough room, and the windows are nailed shut.”

  “We can hardly have the red bastards escaping now, can we, scout?”

  “But it’s going to be sweltering, Lieutenant, and some of these people have never even seen a train before. They’ll be terrified.”

  Gillen’s face flushed an angry red. “These savages have tortured and killed white people. My buddy is rotting in a shallow grave because of these bloodthirsty bastards! You think I care what happens to them?”

  Mooney glanced around. Even as the three argued, black soldiers began loading the Indians on the train. They and their white officers had their orders.

  Ironic, Tom thought in that split second, the blacks, who have just been freed from slavery, are taking part in enslaving the red people.

  When women hesitated, soldiers yanked children from their arms, threw them on the train. The women followed their youngsters onto the cars, sobbing. Old people had their few precious possessions pulled from their arms and dumped next to the track as the soldiers used rifles butts to herd them, like cattle, into the ears.

  Hundreds of dogs ran about in the confusion, yelping and howling, trying to follow their Apache masters into the cars, only to be chased away by soldiers.

  Surrounded by the weeping of children and the howling of dogs, Tom looked around in sudden dismay. More soldiers had appeared. They were jerking the Indian scouts off their ponies, dragging them onto the trains.

  “No!” Tom shouted. “These are friendly braves–see the red headbands? These are the scouts who helped us! There must be some mistake!”

  “See the colonel! We got our orders!” the soldiers shouted back.

  “Cholla, I’ll find the colonel, see if I can find out what’s going on!” Tom dismounted, pushed through the crowd.

  His blue uniform seemed plastered to his body by sweat and dust as he searched frantically for the officer in charge. Everyone kept directing him to someone else. Behind him, the soldiers had disarmed most of the scouts and were loading them bodily onto trains. It took four men to pull the big scout, Cholla, off the rearing stallion. Tom looked back as he ran through the jostling crowd. Ke’jaa snarled and snapped at the soldiers, trying to protect his master as they dragged Cholla off the horse, chained him.

  Mooney turned and ran back through the crowd toward the train. Most of the Indians were aboard now; he could see their frightened faces through the dirty windows that wouldn’t open to allow a breath of air in this September heat. The stench and the noise and the dust seemed to swirl around him. “Stop! You can’t do this! This man is a government scout! There’s been a mistake!”

  But Gillen signaled the soldiers to drag Cholla on board. The dog tried to bite him, and he kicked at it and swore. “Sergeant! Stop interfering with our orders or I’ll have your stripes!”

  “But, Lieutenant–”

  “If you don’t like it, find the colonel and file a complaint.”

  “Sikis ... brother,” Cholla shouted at him, “get to Crook–he’ll help us. Save my dog and my horse–”

  Gillen clubbed him down then, and the soldiers dragged him into the car.

  This couldn’t be happening. Sergeant Mooney stood on the platform, trying to hold onto the frantic dog as it struggled to follow its master on board. The engine blew a warning, and then its wheels began to turn. Smoke billowed from the stack as the engineer signaled his crew.

  Screams echoed from the train. Then it shuddered and jerked, started to move. Mooney looked back at the brown, frightened faces pressed against the glass. Some of these people had never even seen a train before and were terrified of the noise and movement.

  It was all Mooney could do to hold on to the frantic dog as the train moved slowly out of the station. Hundreds of dogs set up a hellish racket as if they realized they were being left behind. Dozens of the animals ran alongside the cars, barking and trying to board. Big dogs, small dogs, half-wild, some a mix of coyote or wolf.

  “Holy Saint Patrick!” Tom whispered under his breath, in horror. General Crook. Yes, he must reach Crook. Tom would tell Gatewood what had happened, and Gatewood would contact Crook. Even as he stood on the platform looking after the train, it cleared the station and began to pull away, the frantic dogs running after it, not understanding why they
had been left behind.

  Ke’jaa turned his muzzle suddenly and bit Tom’s hand. “Sonovagun! You ornery–!” But the dog was off and chasing after the train.

  Mooney ran back to the horses. They were milling about, some of them dragging their reins. Blankets and bundles of food lay in the dust, where the Indians had dropped them in the shuffle. He mounted his horse, took off after the train at a gallop. Tom had promised his friend, his brother, he would save his dog.

  The train gained speed as it headed east. At Albuquerque, it would turn north along the mountains toward Colorado. Black smoke hung on the air behind it. Dozens of frantic dogs, their tongues hanging out from exhaustion, still ran alongside or behind the train, barking as if asking why they had been left behind, who was to look after them.

  One after another, they tired and dropped back, lay panting along the track. Mooney kept riding. In the distance, he saw Ke’jaa still loping alongside the train as it picked up speed. To reach Cholla, the dog would run itself to death.

  Mooney finally caught up with Ke’jaa as the dog slowed. By now his horse was lathered and snorting. How many miles? Five? Ten? The train had turned into a black spot on the horizon and was finally swallowed up all together.

  “Ke’jaa, you sonovagun! Come back here!”

  The dog hesitated at the sound of its name, almost staggering with weariness. Its red ribbon of tongue hung out over great fangs, and its chest heaved so that Mooney could see its ribs as it breathed.

  “Ke’jaa, come to me, boy. Come to me!” He dismounted, yelled and whistled at the big mongrel.

  The dog turned and stared at him, looked after the train and tried to take another step. Then it collapsed and lay in the rough brush as if dead.

  Holy Saint Patrick. Mooney cursed as he reached for his canteen. He had to save the dog. Cholla would be back when this mess was straightened out. Tom bent and poured a little water over the dog’s muzzle. Then he took off his bandanna, wet it and wiped the dog down while the nearly dead animal snarled at him. “I know, you lop-eared cur, but I promised!”

  The dog was too large to lift. It took Tom awhile to get the dog back on its feet so it could follow him to the station on uncertain legs. It kept looking back toward the horizon that had swallowed the train that bore his master away. Tom would have tried to throw it across his saddle and carry it, but he knew Ke’jaa wouldn’t let him do that, even if he could lift him. He felt as angry and confused as the dog, but there was nothing he could do until he went through the chain of command.

  Tom Mooney remembered all that now as he paused before the office door, rapped sharply.

  “Come in.”

  He entered, forgetting for a split second that the dog was with him. Ke’jaa came through the door too, before he closed it and turned to salute Gatewood.

  “At ease, Sergeant, glad to see you. I see you still have the scout’s dog.” The tall officer leaned back in his chair, rubbed his prominent nose.

  “Yes, sir. Cholla was my friend. It was the least I could do.”

  “I wish I could do something more to help. . . .” The soft-spoken officer paused.

  Too ethical to criticize the new leadership, Tom thought. He liked the gentle, brave Gatewood whom the Apaches called Bay-chen-daysen; Long Nose. He liked him much better than the favored Captain Lawton or the Army doctor, Leonard Wood, who seemed so ambitious to move up.

  Gatewood frowned, looking down at the paper under his hand. “This came over the telegraph from Saint Louis; the brass has been trying to keep it quiet for several weeks, but it’s leaked out.”

  “Sir?”

  “Cholla managed to get off that train somewhere east of the Mississippi.”

  “Holy Saint Patrick!” It took everything in him not to throw his hat in the air and cheer. Then Tom remembered himself and came to attention.

  “He hasn’t got a chance; we both know that.” Gatewood unfolded his lanky frame, rising from his chair. He put his hands behind his back and paced up and down. “Lieutenant Gillen’s in charge of recapturing the fugitive.”

  Tom’s heart sank. “He’ll kill him, given. the chance.”

  “I know.” Gatewood rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There’s a ‘dead or alive’ order out on the scout.”

  This time, Tom couldn’t suppress a groan. The dog looked up at the sound.

  “Since you two were close friends, I thought I’d let you know.” Gatewood gave him a long, searching look. Doubtless he had heard the rumors about what had happened at the ambush site from Gillen, but no one could prove anything without a witness and the other three soldiers had backed Mooney and Cholla.

  “I’m much obliged, sir. If there’s any news . . .”

  “I will. You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

  Mooney saluted smartly, turned, and went out, the dog pushing ahead of him. Outside, Tom turned and looked toward the east. Fifteen hundred miles. Too far. Too damned far. But Cholla was a man who lived on the edge, accepted risks every day. He was not going to conform, he would rebel.

  The scout had been treated dishonorably, chained and thrown on that train like a criminal when he had done nothing to merit such a terrible injustice. Tom knew his Apache brother would rather die than to be sent to Florida. If he were alive, the big scout was already headed back across fifteen hundred miles to the land he loved.

  The sunrise had never looked so beautiful to Tom before, all gold and purple and pink. He wasn’t sure whether he felt a need to reassure the dog ... or himself. “Ke’jaa, if anyone can do it, Cholla can.”

  For the first time in many years, Sergeant Tom Mooney bent his head reverently and said a prayer to Saint Christopher, patron saint of those who travel.

  Chapter Nine

  When Sierra awakened before dawn, Cholla was staring down into her eyes. She wished she knew what went on behind that stoic face. Then she remembered last night, and her own face burned. How could she have behaved like such a wanton?

  But of course it’s all part of my plan, she told herself as she got up without speaking, bustled about fixing them a bit of food. Since she had let him make love to her, no doubt he would let his guard down. Maybe she would yet have a chance to use those scissors.

  Cholla frowned and rubbed the back of his neck as he finished his coffee. “If that hombre did go for help, there may be someone on our trail. We’d be wise to abandon the wagon, just take what we can carry in backpacks and use some isolated trails, stay off the roads.”

  The scissors. They would be left in the abandoned trunk. “If we do that,” she said, “we’ll have to leave a lot of things behind. The traveling won’t be nearly as comfortable.”

  He gave her a wry look as he stood up. “I’ve got the whole U.S. Cavalry and armed citizens looking for me and you talk about ‘comfort’?” Then he seemed to reconsider. “Oh, of course. I should have realized you’d have attachments to some of your personal things. Very well, Dark Eyes, we’ll keep the wagon at least another day, but with all these hills, we would be better off to take to the foot trails.”

  Sierra waited for him to make some snide, crude comment about how much she had pleasured him, but he only looked at her a long moment. Had she pleasured him? Maybe he had had other women who’d given him more enjoyment. Hadn’t Robert often taunted her with how awkward and unlearned she was at making love?

  As the Apache packed up the camp, Sierra took her long hair down, brushed it. When she looked up, he was watching her. “Leave it down,” he said. “I like it that way; sort of wild- and abandoned-looking, the kind of hair a man wants to tangle his hands in.”

  Very pointedly, she ignored him, put her hair back up in a prim bun at the back of her neck. Maybe last night she had been the kind of woman the scout spoke of, but that wasn’t the real Sierra. The real Mrs. Robert Forester was prim, restrained, conforming.

  “Sierra, you defy me?”

  For a moment, she almost backed down, then realized that might be admiration in his dark eyes. He must like women w
ith a bit of flint to them. Flint and steel create sparks, she thought, remembering their wild, tempestuous coupling on the creek bank. Her face burned with the memory, but she only raised her chin. “It’s my hair; I’ll wear it as I please!”

  He didn’t answer as they broke camp. They pushed forward hard all day, putting many miles behind them. They were deep into wooded hills now, pine and blackjack, scrubby pin oak and wild bois d’arc with its bright green seed pods as big as apples.

  Cholla grunted with satisfaction when he found a bois d’arc sapling. “I hear this is what the Plains tribes call Osage orange and make bows from. I don’t have many cartridges for this rifle, I’d better plan on making myself a bow.”

  Taking out the butcher knife, he hacked off several branches, threw them in the wagon.

  They traveled until dark, when they pulled off at a fresh water spring and camped. He sat by the fire working on the bow while Sierra cooked a rabbit he had snared.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll go on afoot. I think we’re on the northeastern edge of the Indian Territory, maybe.”

  More Indians. “Will those Indians take you in and help you?”

  He laughed. “Hardly! The tribes there are not friends of the Apaches, but then, I doubt they are too happy with whites right now. Gossip around the fort said the government in Washington was thinking about taking some of the land away from the Indians and giving it to white farmers.”

  “I thought Indian Territory belonged to the tribes as long as the grass grew and the rivers ran?”

  He gave her a long look. “Whites have a habit of making promises they don’t keep. That’s why I was on my way to Florida, chained up like an animal.”