Apache Caress

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

  Tom twisted restlessly in bed, trying not to think of the woman in the photo, the girl with the beautiful dark eyes, spread out on a blanket under the Apache’s hard, brown body. She might even be carrying Cholla’s son by now.

  The dog raised its head and regarded him solemnly.

  “Ke’jaa, I wonder where he is at this moment, if he’s still alive?” When Tom realized he was almost waiting for the dog to answer, he flushed with embarrassment, glad there was no one around to hear him conversing with a beast. “You’ve been alone too long,” he whispered, “and your friend has the woman you want.”

  He listened to the wind moaning around the buildings of the fort, like an Indian spirit wailing to get inside. Did he want Cholla to make it back to Arizona? Holy Saint Patrick, that wasn’t possible, was it? And if Cholla did, the Army would only kill him for his trouble or gather him up again and ship him back to Florida. Word had come that the Apaches were beginning to die in the humid, steamy coastal swamp. The children were being separated from their parents and sent to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, to an old Army camp that was being converted into a school to “civilize” them.

  Suppose they found Mrs. Forester and she had no place to go and her belly was big with an Apache bastard? No one would want her. But Mooney would. He liked babies, any kind or color. Maybe if she had no one else to turn to and was expecting a child, she might, she just might, consider a middle-aged trooper who hadn’t much to offer but a small farm that needed a lot of work and improvements. He didn’t have the money for that. He could stay in the Army, but an officer’s widow wouldn’t be interested in a sergeant. He could offer her his love.

  Tom blushed, trying to imagine saying sweet words to a woman. She would probably laugh at his clumsy attempts to say anything romantic. He would read her some poetry, and maybe she would be impressed. One thing was certain, he could offer a woman steadfast love and a devotion she wouldn’t find in most men. And maybe, somewhere down the line, after they had lived together awhile, she might finally learn to love him, too.

  He reached out for the photo in the pocket of his jacket, which hung over the chair next to his bed, held it, listening to the wind and the dog’s soft breathing.

  When he closed his eyes, the girl in the photo came into his arms and smiled.

  “You’re just the kind of man I’ve always wanted, Tom, a shy, but sincere one who would take care of me. I don’t care that you’re not young and good-looking.”

  “All my life, I’ve looked for a woman, a soft, kind woman who understood me and didn’t laugh when I read poetry aloud. If you’ve got a child, I don’t mind at all, bless the saints, no. We’ll raise it along with our own. I just wish I had a little money to fix up the farm.”

  “The money doesn’t matter, Tom. We care about each other and we need each other. That’s all that counts, you know.” She would reach for the book. “Ah, you like poetry, I see. So do I. Read me that poem about: ‘I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more.’ ”

  She settled herself in his lap in front of the fire and he read to her while her dark hair spilled across his shoulder. Together, they were one against the world. When the wind rattled the shutters, he wasn’t alone anymore.

  The sound of the bugle blowing reveille brought him up out of bed with a start. For the first time in many years, Tom had overslept.

  He dressed quickly and went about his duties, the dog trotting ahead of him as he crossed the parade ground. Schultz came around the corner, saluted. “Lieutenant Gatewood wants to see you, Sergeant.”

  “There’s news?”

  “They don’t tell me things like that. When you find out, me and Taylor and Allen would like to know. Cholla’s our friend, too.” The corporal put a cigar between his stained teeth.

  Tom nodded and took off at a brisk pace for the officers’ quarters, the dog running ahead of him. He was almost afraid of what the news might be; probably that the Army had finally cornered and killed the Apache scout.

  He knocked and entered, snapped the slender officer a salute. Gatewood returned it, wrinkling his nose thoughtfully as he stared at the message before him. “Someone has finally spotted them.”

  Them. The woman whose picture he carried in his jacket and the best friend he had. He must wait for Gatewood to continue, but the officer was staring out the window. He, too, has been in Arizona a long time, Tom thought. Half a dozen years ago, Gatewood had been one of those involved in tracking down Victorio when that Apache was raiding.

  Gatewood looked up suddenly as if he had forgotten the sergeant was present. “Some fellow in Missouri named Hankins spotted the pair of them. Says he and two friends were out hunting somewhere in the hills and this Apache just jumped them, killed his friends and wounded him. Supposedly, he was lucky to escape with his life.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, attacking peaceful citizens for no reason doesn’t sound like Cholla.”

  “Neither does stabbing the vice president of a bank with a letter opener,” Gatewood said.

  Tom shook his head, tight-lipped. “Cholla? Never! He’s being blamed for things he wouldn’t do. Is this Hankins sure it was Cholla?” Tom argued, “maybe he’s mistaken–”

  “And just how many big Indian braves do you suppose there are running about in Missouri?”

  Tom grudgingly conceded the point. “And the woman?”

  “She’s with him, but it seems she was trying to escape. According to this Tiny Hankins, he and his friends were trying to assist the lady in her escape when the Apache turned up, killed the other two, damn near killed him. Hankins got away and walked several days to reach a telegraph station. He says the Indian carried the woman off again.”

  Tom didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. His friend was still alive, but the Army was closer to catching him now. And the woman was with him.

  “Sit down, Tom,” the lieutenant said softly.

  Tom sank down into a chair.

  “The colonel has asked me to talk to you.” There was reluctance in Gatewood’s eyes.

  “Sir?”

  “Gillen’s not doing all that well tracking him.”

  “He isn’t the brightest officer in the Army. I always thought he couldn’t find his way to the latrine and back, and his candy chomping gets on everyone’s nerves.” Tom grinned and ran stubby, freckled fingers through his thinning hair. A suspicion began to build in his mind. When he looked up, something about Gatewood’s manner told him he was probably right. Charles Gatewood was an honorable man, a gentleman. That was why he was still a lieutenant and probably would be when he died.

  “Sergeant, I have been ordered to tell you that since you know Cholla, know him well enough to understand how he thinks, you could be valuable in this hunt.”

  Tom just stared at him, unblinking.

  Gatewood looked away and rubbed the bridge of his prominent nose, turning the pen over and over in his hands. “Besides they think you could talk him into surrendering if they get him cornered. No one else could.”

  Tom swore softly under his breath. “The sonovabitches want me to help them capture or kill my friend?”

  Gatewood turned the pen over and over in nervous fingers. “There’s a promotion for you–and the reward if they get him.”

  Tom stared at the wide pine planks of the floor. It was worn white from cavalry boots. The dog lay looking at him almost gravely as if it wondered what his answer would be.

  “The colonel could order you to do it,” Gatewood said.

  “Sir, you’ve been in the Army long enough to know this ain’t the kind of duty you can order a man to do. There’s too many ways he can mess up if he doesn’t want to do it.”

  The officer grunted agreement, turning the pen over and over in his hands, while Tom stared at the worn floor boards, thinking.

  Would the woman be so grateful if he helped rescue her that she would consider him? Would any man besides himself want her after she’d been used by the Apache scout? Could he have her if he bet
rayed his friend? “I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more.”

  Tom chewed his lip. “The promotion doesn’t mean much, Lieutenant. I’m thinking of retiring at the end of this hitch, however, there’s one question about the reward.”

  Gatewood looked as if he did not quite believe the sergeant was asking about the reward. He seemed disappointed, sad. “What about it?”

  Tom looked him in the eye and grinned. “First, find out if it’s thirty pieces of silver. Then tell the colonel the Irish sergeant said the Army could stick its reward up its–”

  “I don’t believe I’d better tell him that.” Gatewood threw back his head and laughed. He looked relieved. “I’ll just tell him you are needed here and too damned old to do much more than putter around the post anyhow.”

  “There you have it. Is that all, sir?”

  Gatewood nodded. As Tom stood, the dog got up off the floor. When Tom turned to go, Gatewood came around his desk, held out his hand. “Thank you, Mooney, you have renewed my faith in my fellow man. There aren’t many who’d turn down a chance at a promotion and a reward.”

  Tom thought of the woman as he shook hands with the officer. Maybe by not helping in the capture he was throwing away his chance to meet her. “I wish the reward and promotion were all that was at stake here, sir.”

  “Oh?” Gatewood waited, but Tom couldn’t bring himself to say any more. He figured the lieutenant would probably tell him he’d been alone too long and ought to go down to the cantina and get himself a woman. But that wasn’t the kind of woman he wanted.

  Tom paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You’ll let me know if there’s any news?”

  Gatewood nodded. They exchanged looks without saying anything. Neither of them really expected the Apache to make it all the way back. It was just impossible, even for a rugged individualist like Cholla. The next news we’ll hear, Tom thought, is that troops have surrounded Cholla and he has died in a blaze of gunfire rather than be captured.

  He thought about the woman again and of long, cold nights spent before the fireplace on the old farm back in Michigan. “Sir, I ... I know this is a strange question, but has anyone heard if Mrs. Forester reads poetry?”

  Gatewood looked absolutely blank. “What?”

  “Never mind. It was a foolish question.” Tom turned quickly and went out, afraid of looking foolish. The lieutenant might read between the lines and understand too much. Besides being a lonely man, Tom Mooney was a very private one.

  Outside, the chill wind blew against his face as he and the dog stared off toward the northeast. The Apache had managed to cross several hundred miles, if this Tiny Hankins was to be believed. By now, if he were alive, Cholla might be somewhere in Indian Territory on this crisp autumn morning.

  Tom took out the photograph and stared at it, wondering if he had done the right thing. Would Cholla hurt Sierra Forester because her husband had murdered and raped the Apache girl? How, by all the saints, had Cholla found her? Could it be coincidence? The odds were against it. Had the Holy Mother herself stepped in on this one? What kind of miracle was a kidnapping, maybe even a rape and murder?

  He stared off into the distance, wondered where the pair was and if they knew Gillen was closing in on them? At least this time Tom Mooney had no blood on his hands....

  Sierra sat by the fire Cholla had started by rubbing two dry sticks together in a small bit of moss. It had been a long night and a cold one, with both of them huddled up together, trying to stay warm without blankets, trying to forget their hunger. In the morning Cholla had finally gotten a fire going, and he had cut another branch of Osage orange to make a new bow. But first he had made a snare from the dried grape vines that grew wild in the area, had caught a rabbit and cooked it.

  Sierra ate all he gave her of the roasted meat and licked her fingers. As she finished, she realized he had taken only a very small piece for himself. “You didn’t get enough.”

  He shrugged and worked on the bow. “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  He raised one eyebrow, then returned to his work. “A few weeks ago, you were a timid mouse, now you argue with me and speak your mind continually. I think I like you better the other way.”

  “I just decided I didn’t have to put up with being one of the mindless masses, that I could make my own destiny if I put my mind to it.”

  “Put your mind to finding things washed up along the river, things we might be able to use. Like some rope or cans we can cook in–or maybe even our bedrolls. We could dry them out.”

  “Those are long gone down river,” Sierra said. “Maybe we could make some fishhooks and catch a few fish.”

  “Fish?”

  She frowned at him. “Fish are usually found in rivers. We could roast them on sticks.”

  “No.” His voice was firm as he shook his head. “You sound like the government. I think one of the reasons they decided to put the Apaches in Florida was that they thought we could cut expenses by catching a lot of fish to eat.”

  “So? Sounds reasonable.”

  “The Apache do not eat anything that swims.”

  She looked at him and frowned as she unbraided her hair, shook it out to dry. “That’s silly.”

  “Is it?” He paused in his bow-making. “Some Apaches have developed a taste for Army mules. It’s good, fat meat. They don’t understand why the whites don’t eat them.”

  Sierra made a face. “Merciful heavens!”

  Cholla laughed. “Same difference. The whites have no respect for Indian taboos. I’ll starve before I start catching fish.”

  “And what about me? Am I supposed to starve, too?”

  He looked at her a moment, then sighed. “For you, I might do it. I wouldn’t want my hostage to die on me.”

  “What are we going to do now?”

  “I don’t know.” He seemed tired and even a little defeated as he looked around. “This Indian summer can’t last forever. We’ve got to be out of this country before winter begins in earnest. Somehow, my instinct tells me this is going to be an unusually bad season.”

  She gave some thought to the train again. Sierra had no idea how often one came through. She wondered if there was a town or a ranch or any place they could walk to to get food. “If we run across a town or something, are you going to turn me loose?” She had finished combing her hair with her fingers and started braiding it again.

  “I haven’t decided. Don’t worry me about it.” He sounded annoyed and out of sorts.

  “Well, at least we’re alive,” she said.

  He smiled wryly. “You never did thank me for saving your life by pulling you out of the river.”

  “Why, you–! I wouldn’t have been in the river if it weren’t for you, or even on that train.” She reminded herself of all the things she’d been through because of him, and she promised herself she would be there to enjoy it when the Army hanged him or loaded him back on a Florida-bound prison train.

  “At least we’re alive.”

  “Alive?” Sierra fumed. “We’re out here with no supplies, no food. We don’t know where we are. It couldn’t get any worse than this.”

  Cholla’s head came up suddenly and he froze. “Oh, yes, it could. Don’t move, Sierra.”

  His tone and the way he clasped the butcher knife as he stared past her shoulder caused Sierra to turn around. A white woman wearing an elegant black velvet riding habit, two fancy pistols in her belt, rode out of the nearby woods, leading a group of mounted men.

  “White people. I’m saved!” Sierra stood up even as Cholla grabbed for her. She eluded him, went running to meet the riders. “I’m here! Hey, here I am!”

  The woman might have been pretty in her younger days, but she was nearing forty and her face was weathered and plain. She looked startled, held up a hand to halt the men riding with her. Sierra glanced over her shoulder, but Cholla had disappeared into the woods.

  Well, maybe they won’t capture the Apach
e, but at least I’m safe, Sierra told herself. She ran toward the riders, waving her arm. “I sure am glad to see you! I need help.”

  She came to a sudden halt, staring up at one of the men, recognizing him. The memory of ice blue eyes burned into her brain.

  He grinned and leaned on his saddle horn. “You sure do, sweet thing. I ain’t forgot you.”

  It was Slim.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sierra wasn’t quite sure what to do. She glanced over her shoulder. Cholla had disappeared into the brush. It suddenly dawned on her that she was free, even if she had to deal with Slim.

  She managed to smile, then stepped forward and addressed the woman rider. “I’m Sierra Forester. The law is looking for me. I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Sweet thing,” Slim drawled, “the law is lookin’ for a lot of us. Ain’t that right, Belle?”

  “Shut your mouth, Slim,” the woman snapped, she fixed her cold, dark gaze on Sierra. “Are you the one that shot Slim?”

  What could she say with Slim leaning on his saddle horn, grinning down at her, a bandage around one arm. “I sure did. He and Pete tried to rape me.”

  “I thought as much. It seems he forgot to tell me that.” The woman turned and glared at Slim, then smiled at Sierra. “Pete wasn’t worth the bullet it took to kill him nohow. I’m Belle Starr from over at Younger’s Bend. You heard of me?”

  Her expression indicated she expected Sierra to say yes, so Sierra obliged. “Why, of course. Everyone’s heard of you. I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

  The woman beamed at the men in her party, her plain face lighting up. “You see? Those dime novels about me are getting around.” To Sierra, she said, “You appear to be in dire straits, miss. If you’d care to accompany us back to my place, maybe I can find some clothes to fit you, although you wear a larger size than I do.”