by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress
And what of Gillen? Cholla could do nothing about the lieutenant. But with Tom’s enlistment almost up, and the sergeant now a rich man, Gillen would be slamming his fist into his palm a thousand times in helpless frustration, knowing Cholla had outfoxed him again.
Finally Sierra disappeared over the horizon. Cholla looked after her a moment longer, his vision suddenly blurred. Then he blinked and cursed the dust that must have brought tears to his eyes.
With a heavy heart, he turned his black gelding and rode back to his campsite to rest and wait. When darkness fell, he would ride for the border and turn his back forever on Arizona Territory and the woman he loved.
Cholla watered his horse, hobbled the black gelding, and left it to graze. Then he lay down in the shade of a big boulder overlooking the breathtaking view to the south. He would rest until dark, then ride for the border under cover of night. Gradually he dropped off into a deep, troubled sleep.
Cholla moved restlessly, lost in the nightmare that came sometimes. Once again he scouted for Lieutenant Forester’s patrol, through the mesquite and the cactus, the dust and the relentless heat rising up in little waves from the scorched land. Forester, searching for gold, had insisted on riding into that arroyo despite Cholla’s warning that it was a good place to get trapped and wiped out by any stray hostiles in the border area. The blond Texan wouldn’t even listen to his seasoned old sergeant. Forester was looking for treasure, and he’d seen sunlight glint off distant rocks.
The reflections turned out to be coming from spent cartridges from an old battle, not nuggets, and within minutes, they were surrounded and cut off, trapped in the arroyo by hostile Apaches sniping from the hills around it. Cholla smelled the sticky sweet blood, the gunsmoke drifting in choking clouds. All around them, shots rang out, echoed and reechoed with the hostiles’ shrieks.
He was prepared to die; a warrior expected to be killed in battle. Certainly Mooney and Schultz and the other two troopers still living were stoic as they returned the withering fire. Cholla could smell the white officer’s fear sweat on the hot summer air.
“You did this,” Forester babbled, waving his pistol. “You found out, brought me out here to get me killed!” Cholla didn’t know what he was talking about. Most of the patrol was already dead, and the survivors were almost out of shells and water.
The lieutenant was so crazy with fear, he was raving. “You did this, you damned Injun, because of her. You got me out here to kill me!”
Cholla tried to calm him, tried to remind him that his own greed had brought them into this steep gully despite the scout’s warning.
But Forester was past reason. Sheer terror and madness shone in his pale turquoise eyes. “You damned Injun, so we enjoyed her a little; that’s what squaws are for! I’m sick of you following me around. Sick of waiting for you to take your revenge, you hear?”
Cholla began to get a sick feeling in his stomach. The men left in the patrol–Sergeant Mooney, Corporal Schultz, Taylor, and Allen–had turned to listen to the hysterical babbling. Cholla hadn’t known; he’d suspected Geronimo’s renegades. But he knew now.
We. Who was “we”?
He managed to control his fury. As scout, his first responsibility was to lead this patrol to safety. “Lieutenant, we’ll settle our personal differences later. Right now, we’ve got to stay alive until someone hears the firing, sends another patrol.”
“No, by God, we’ll settle them now! Now, do you hear? I’m gonna kill you, Injun, before you kill me. All these others are white men; they’ll swear you led us into this trap. I’ll see that they do. There won’t even be an investigation.”
Cholla looked past him at Sergeant Mooney, but nothing Tom could say would get through to the crazed officer.
Forester waved his pistol and screamed, “Throw your rifle down, Injun! I’m gonna end this once and for all!”
Cholla did throw the rifle down, and he backed away, feeling cold sweat run down his back as Robert Forester cursed and screamed and waved the pistol at him.
July. The heat rose up in little waves off the rocks; weapons were too hot to touch. The fine dust clung to their sweating bodies. Water. He’d give a year of his life for just a mouthful of tepid alkali water. Cholla looked from the ranting, crazed officer down to the rifle at his feet. Beyond Forester, Mooney seemed paralyzed.
The hostiles were mounting another attack now, and somewhere in the distance, Cholla heard the echo of a cavalry bugle sounding a charge. Noise. Screams and gunshots and horses rearing and neighing. A cavalry bugle again, still a long way off. His own breathing and the blond Texan’s swearing and sobbing.
“I’ll kill you, you Injun bastard . . . tired of waiting for you to come after me ... kill you . . . kill you. . . .”
If I could just reach that rifle at his feet, Cholla thought. He looked around frantically as the officer screamed and ranted. He didn’t care about the consequences of shooting an officer; at the moment he only cared about staying alive.
“Don’t even think about it, Injun!” Forester shouted and pulled back the hammer. “Right between the eyes, just like Delzhinne got hers! Right between the eyes–”
Cholla woke with a gasp and sat bolt upright, looking around. He was asleep by a boulder. He’d been waiting for darkness, so he could slip across the border. He wiped the sweat from his brow. If he had broken the vow, told Sierra the truth, the nightmare might have gone away. But he was bound by that oath. They all were–the survivors of the massacre. Because of that, he could never tell her what had really happened. He wished somehow that she knew.
He leaned against the rock, sighed, and thought about his four loyal friends–loyal to him, loyal to each other. The vow had been Cholla’s idea, but it was Schultz who had suggested they bury the young officer as fast as possible, so no one would ever know what had happened. Gillen had showed up with his patrol just as they were burying Forester. Had the lieutenant ever put all the pieces of the puzzle together? Allen and Taylor had suggested that Forester be recommended for a medal and a commendation. Only that veteran soldier, Mooney, had wanted to tell the truth, but the others had demanded he take the vow and keep silent.
Like the rest, Cholla expected to take the secret to his grave. It was the honorable thing to do. He couldn’t tell Sierra, even if knowing the truth about her husband’s death might have changed things between them. He had a feeling that she suspected he had killed her husband.
It was almost dusk. He shot a rabbit and roasted it over his campfire, thinking about how lonely he was going to be without Sierra. As soon as night came, he would be heading for the border. Though he was leaving his heart behind, his course was set and he didn’t intend to look back.
Chapter Twenty
Sierra kept her eyes on the distant horizon as she rode away, forcing herself not to look back at Cholla. If she did, she might not be able to stop herself from wheeling the mare about and returning to beg to go with him.
He doesn’t want me, she thought regretfully, so there is no reason to throw away my pride. Sierra had served his purpose as a hostage, and she had warmed his blankets for many weeks. He had no further need of her. While he had made love to her lately as if he really cared, perhaps she had only believed that to be so.
For a few minutes, as she rode, Sierra listened for the sound of hoof beats coming from behind. She even reined in, but heard only a hawk winging across the sky and a small lizard slithering through the dry brush.
She chided herself and turned once again toward the fort. What was she hoping for? For him to come after her. This is reality, Sierra, not a storybook. He won’t come.
She touched her lips with her fingertips, savoring the memory of that final kiss. Then she took a deep breath and nudged her mare into a slow canter. The wind picked up, blowing sand across her tracks. No soldier would be able to find his way to Cholla’s camp because of her horse’s hoof prints, Sierra thought with satisfaction, leaning into the wind.
What did the future hold for
her? Well, whatever it was, she would go forward with the confidence and fearlessness she had learned from the Apache. She was certain his story would grow and grow until it became part of Western legend. One man had defied the civilization that tried to tame him, one man had defeated the most powerful country in the world, had made a laughing stock of a whole Army. No doubt someone’s head would roll over this. She hoped it was Lieutenant Gillen’s.
The sun was low on the horizon when Sierra reined in and saw the adobe walls of the fort. Soon it would be dark and Cholla would be leaving for the border. Should she wait until then to ride in? She thought for a moment, then shook her head. If she approached the fort after dark, some trigger-happy guard might shoot her. Besides, she didn’t intend to tell them Cholla’s whereabouts, not even if they threatened her, threw her into the guardhouse. She nudged the mare forward.
The fort seemed to be slumbering as she rode in. Hardly anyone was in sight, and the wind blew swirls of dust across a deserted parade ground. A corporal, hurrying past, stopped, came over. He took a cigar from between stained teeth.
“Ma’am, may I help you?” He stared up at her, polite curiosity on his face, as if he wondered why a tanned and weary woman was riding in alone in such hostile country.
“Yes, I’m looking for Sergeant Tom Mooney. Do you know him?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The corporal touched his cap politely. “I’ll take you to him.” His eyes were bright with curiosity, but she sensed he was too polite to question her. A lone, unknown woman riding down out of the hills would be unusual anywhere.
Sierra dismounted, not offering any explanation. She wouldn’t trust anyone until she was certain Cholla had reached his goal.
“This way, ma’am.” The corporal threw away his cigar and nodded toward the row of adobe buildings.
She led her horse and looked around as she followed him. “Where is everyone?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, ma’am, and since there’s not much danger anymore, most of the men are off duty, having a few drinks at the cantina or even over in Tombstone.”
“I see.”
New Year’s Eve. Well, maybe this was a portent of things to come, good tidings and good luck for herself and for Cholla.
The wind let up some as he led her to a building, gallantly tied her horse to the hitching rail, and rapped on the door.
“Yes?”
“Sergeant Mooney, it’s Schultz. There’s someone here to see you.”
The past was over. A new year was beginning. Yet Sierra felt that everything important to her was ending.
A rather short but wiry middle-aged man opened the door, a sergeant with thinning, sandy hair, warm eyes, and freckled hands. So this was Cholla’s friend. He looked dependable, trustworthy.
“Sergeant Mooney? I’m Sierra Forester.”
He blinked as if waking from a dream. “Sierra Forester? Excuse me, ma’am, I ... I’m so surprised to see you, I’ve forgotten my manners. Come in.” Turning to the corporal, he said, “That’ll be all, Schultz, I’ll call you if I need you.”
Sierra entered, looked around.
“This is Lieutenant Gatewood’s office,” the sergeant said by way of explanation. “He’s ill and another lieutenant is due in on the train tonight, so I’m helping with the filing and paperwork. Do sit down, Mrs. Forester.”
She took a chair, looking the Irishman over critically, liking what she saw. There was something good and moral and solid about this plain, hard-working trooper.
And Mooney looked at her, almost as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he blurted out and then reddened.
“You saw the photo my husband had?”
“Of course. The . . . the lieutenant carried it with him and often spoke of his love for you.”
Sergeant Mooney might be a gentle man, a caring man, but he was as poor a liar as Cholla. Obviously neither had had much experience at it.
“I knew my husband better than that,” Sierra said softly, “but thank you for trying to spare my feelings.”
He fumbled with a book on the desk, looking both awkward and foolish. “Is Cholla all right?”
At the sound of the Apache’s name, a big yellow dog that looked more like a coyote rose up from behind the desk, sniffed the air curiously.
“Is that his dog? Oh, I’m so glad it’s alive!” Sierra clasped her hands. “Cholla thinks the soldiers shot him.”
“I managed to save him. I thought it was the least I could do for a friend.”
She held out her hand to the dog. “Ke’jaa?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mrs. Forester, but I wouldn’t touch that dog if I were you. He doesn’t take to strangers.”
The dog stopped sniffing the air, walked silently over to Sierra, sat down in front of her and laid its huge head on her knee.
Sergeant Mooney’s mouth dropped open. “Holy Saint Patrick! Ma’am, this is a shock. That’s a one-man dog. Ke’jaa never even took up with Delzhinne.”
Cholla’s woman. Sierra had wanted to be his woman. But one woman was the same as another to that proud, remote man. She stroked the dog’s head absently, saw the curiosity in the Irishman’s eyes. “Cholla’s all right, Sergeant. He’ll be headed for the border once it gets dark.”
Tom Mooney sat down on a corner of the desk, drew a visible sigh of relief. “Thank the saints. Then he’ll be safe by morning.”
“This dog is thin, Sergeant,” Sierra ran her hand over the dog’s ribs and looked at the sergeant reproachfully.
“He’s grievin’ himself to death, no matter what I do. Life doesn’t seem to mean nothing to him without Cholla.”
She knew just how the dog felt. Funny, she should be celebrating her safe arrival at the fort, her future in this new year that would dawn tomorrow. But like the dog, all she could think of was a bronzed man and how much she missed him already.
She must have looked forlorn and sad, because the man stood up, came over, stood before her hesitantly. “Mrs. Forester, I ... I want to tell you that I’m at your disposal. Anything I can do to help you, I’ll do and gladly.”
She looked up at him, watching him clench and unclench his freckled hands in an agony of embarrassment. It’s almost as if he’s in love with me, she thought in amazement as Tom Mooney blushed like a schoolboy. She wondered suddenly if Cholla had any inkling of this.
“Sergeant . . . Tom.” She reached out, put her hand on his arm, feeling she could trust him, as Cholla trusted him. “Thank you for caring and offering to help. He did tell me to give you a message.”
“A message?” He half turned away as if already regretting his impulsive words.
“He told me to tell you he was sending you that gift he promised.”
Mooney turned and looked directly at her. “Do you have any idea what he meant?”
She shook her head, but the expression on his weathered face told her that he did and was shaken by it.
“There was more–something about Usen’s own and Ke’jaa’s den.”
Now it was Tom Mooney’s turn to shake his head. “I’m afraid that means nothing to me.”
“Me either, but he said to think on it and you’d know.”
Mooney looked baffled. “Maybe it wasn’t important.”
“Cholla acted as if it were. He made me repeat it several times. Don’t you have any idea of what he’s telling you?”
“I’ll give it some thought.” The sergeant looked down at her hand on his arm, blushed again, and suddenly very conscious of the way he looked at her, she dropped her hand to her lap. She now understood the first part of the message. She was the gift. Cholla was sending his woman and the child she might be carrying to the only white man he trusted to take her in and look after her. Was he doing it for her or for his friend?
Ke’jaa whined softly, and she looked at the dog, thinking how lonely Cholla was going to be. The dog would be company for him, maybe even some help to him. “I want to get Ke’jaa to him. If I leave righ
t now–”
“Mrs. Forester, Sierra, be sensible.” Mooney shook his head. “Lieutenant Gillen is due here about dark; he’s coming in on the train. I’ll do anything I can to delay him. I just hope his train is late–too late for him to organize a patrol and try to ambush Cholla at that little arroyo near the border.”
“Is that the one where my husband was killed?”
Tom looked startled, then seemed to avoid her gaze. “Yes, ma’am, the lieutenant is buried near there, a fine and brave man he was, too.”
“You don’t need to try to spare my feelings, Sergeant,” she said and stood up. “I knew him better than you did.”
He turned brick red and cleared his throat. “I ... I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Forester.”
There were a couple of things she had to know. They would haunt her unless she did. “Sergeant Mooney, do you know anything about the death of Cholla’s woman?”
“Cholla’s woman?” He looked baffled.
“Delzhinne.” She was impatient with him.
He blinked and shook his head. “Delzhinne was Cholla’s younger sister, ma’am.”
“Sister? But I thought-”
“Mrs. Forester, Cholla never took a wife–too choosy and too proud. Oh, he’s had many woman, all right, but none he cared enough to call ishton, most beloved, the one and only woman in his life. I always figured when he found the woman he wanted, she’d be something very special.” His eyes were full of questions that he was too polite to ask.
Sierra tried to hide her state of confusion. A sister. His sister, not his woman. That didn’t eliminate the next question she must ask. “I see. Sergeant, be honest with me. I want to know how the girl died.”