Apache Moon

by Len Levinson

  “That's what they all say,” the lawman replied laconically, taking out his notebook and pencil. “What's your side of it?”

  Lieutenant Dawes's brow wrinkled. “You've probably heard that my wife was once . . . with Braddock, and that's why I arrested him. That's the most vicious insult of my career, because it implies that I'd be petty enough to deprive another man of his liberty, due to my own pathetic jealousy. It has the ring of cheap sentiment, and makes a rather touching story, but it's horseshit. Duane Braddock is a killer, and you can see it in his eyes. But he's got that lost-little-puppy-dog charm and attracts the mother in every woman. I'm sure you've heard his supposedly tragic story by now. He was raised in an orphanage, but he turned out to be a rotten little urchin, and they threw him out. Then he hopped on a stagecoach, rode a few days, and landed in Titusville, where he shot approximately six men. His next stop was this settlement, where he shot two more. And I'm not even mentioning fistfights, barroom brawls, and wrestling matches. He's extremely violent and probably loco, but as I said, he's got a certain charm, and he smiles oh so sweetly. The people around here are rather unsophisticated, and they've been taken in by him. Duane Braddock could shoot a grandmother in the back in broad daylight on the main street of Shelby, and the good citizens would probably say that he was justified, or it was an accident, or the grandmother had evil intentions. Duane Braddock has this town bamboozled, but I'm the local authority and couldn't let him get away with shooting two people.”

  Marshal Stowe smiled faintly. “I've got thirty witnesses who'll say that Braddock fired in self-defense.”

  “I don't care what they say. Two men were dead, and I considered it my duty to take him into custody, which I did at great personal risk, by the way. I suppose you've heard that he beat Otis Puckett to the draw? He would've shot me, too, but fortunately I was able to outmaneuver him. Mind if I have another sip of that whiskey?”

  The marshal threw the flask, and Dawes plucked it out of the air. He took a few swallows, sucked wind through his teeth, and said, “If you don't believe me, that's your privilege. All I can do is my duty as I see it, but if you ever run into the so-called Pecos Kid, keep your hand near your gun and watch for a back shot. I wouldn't put anything past him, and he likes to use women to get what he wants. Have you heard that he was about to marry into the richest ranch in the territory?”

  “I spoke with Mister Thornton yesterday. He thinks Duane Braddock is innocent, and is anxious to exonerate him.”

  “Killing is killing no matter how you cut it. If you came here hoping that I'd withdraw my report—forget it.”

  The sounds of the army camp came to their ears as they stared at each other. Then the marshal placed his left ankle on his right knee and lit a cheroot. “I've spoken with your wife,” he said.

  Lieutenant Dawes's cheek betrayed a flicker of emotion. “What did the bitch have to say?”

  “The same as the others: that you arrested Braddock out of jealousy.”

  “I don't care what my birdbrained wife says. Braddock is personable and even somewhat charismatic, just like Jesse James, John Wesley Harding, and all the other killers, robbers, and rapists on the loose in the West these days. My best professional judgment is that he's a murderer, and I'm afraid that you'll have to bring him in—if those bloodthirsty Apaches haven't caught him yet.”

  The column of Apaches came to a stream at the end of a narrow winding canyon. They dismounted, sentries were posted, and they watered their horses. Duane knelt beside his animal, filled his hat full of water, and drank deeply as he regarded the Apaches warily. They moved quickly, brightly, and were extremely athletic, with sinewy arms and legs, deep bronze coloring, and rugged confidence. They continually glanced around, searching for possible danger. Delgado ambled toward Duane, accompanied by three of his warriors. He looked Duane up and down skeptically. “I am afraid that we will have to blindfold the both of you now.”

  Duane didn't resist as they wrapped the cloth over his eyes. A few feet away Phyllis submitted to the same fate. The world went dark around them, and they were led to their horses. They climbed into their saddles, and the column moved out again, heading in a direction that Duane couldn't discern. He tried to be optimistic, but he knew that Apaches hated white men. Something told him that he probably wouldn't be alive when the sun went down that night.

  Marshal Dan Stowe sat at a table in Gibson's General Store, his map spread before him, a glass of whiskey holding down one edge. His guess was the fugitives had gone straight south, in an effort to reach Mexico as soon as possible. The first border town on the route was Morellos, and that was where Stowe hoped to intercept them. Braddock and Phyllis Thornton had a head start, but he knew the territory better than they. In addition, he'd met Apache leaders at treaty signings and powwows over the years and felt that they'd respect his tin badge. They knew damn well that if they killed him, the Fourth Cavalry would chase them to the ends of the earth.

  His plan was to travel at night and sleep during the day. The only way to catch your man was just keep on a-comin’. Stowe was relentless in pursuit, and never stopped until he captured his quarry. He thought of the hundred dollars in his jeans, and guilt fell over him yet again, tormenting him endlessly. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't doing something wrong, although he'd accepted a semibribe.

  Is Duane Braddock a killer or the victim of jealousy? he wondered. But I'm not the judge, and it's just my job to bring him in—no matter what it takes. And if I can return that girl to her father, so much the better. There's nothing wrong with that, right?

  Commands were shouted back and forth as the Apache column came to a stop. “Get down,” said the voice of an Apache warrior.

  Duane lowered himself to the ground. The Apache came up behind him and untied the blindfold. The bright sunlight knifed into Duane's head. A narrow craggy incline lay straight ahead. Duane turned to Phyllis, whose blindfold was also being removed. They moved toward each other and embraced.

  “Come,” said the Apache warrior. “No time for that now.”

  Other Apaches laughed as they tugged their horses up the impossible path. Duane couldn't understand how they could traverse those jagged teeth. If he were riding by, he'd never dream that men could use it for an avenue of escape.

  “What is the delay?”

  It was Delgado striding toward them, a scowl on his face. “White Eyes, we know that you are weak, but please do not slow us down too much. We are anxious to return to our camp, see our wives, and mourn for our dead.”

  “We'll keep up,” Duane vowed. “We're not as weak as we look.”

  Delgado placed his hands on his hips and said arrogantly, “White Eyes are pathetic, but you are stealing all our land. It is—how you say—a cont . . . cont . . .”

  “Contradiction?” Phyllis asked.

  Delgado turned to her and looked her over. “Thank you,” he said coolly. Then he moved off with the sure movements of a mountain cat, and Phyllis wondered how many people he'd killed in order to become a leader of Apache warriors. She shuddered as he issued the command for the warriors to proceed.

  Duane held the reins of his horse as he prepared for the task that lay ahead. He was determined to demonstrate that a white man could climb as fast as they, even though they'd probably kill him later. I can't slow down no matter how tired and thirsty I get.

  The column advanced up the mountain, and Duane looked for the next spot to put his foot. He had to pick and feel his way around sharp boulders that were hell on boots. He looked at the moccasins that the Apaches wore, and they appeared little more than deerskin stockings, not much protection from sharp edges. They must have feet like iron, he mused as he searched for the next toehold. They were amid steep cliffs, rock escarpments, and vast plateaus. Duane turned to look at his horse, which he'd met on the night that Phyllis had sprung him out of the army camp. She'd said it was one of her father's best, and his name was Steve, while Phyllis's horse was Suzie. Duane glanced at his woman and saw t
hat she was climbing steadily, her hat covering her face as she examined the trail before her.

  He figured that he'd be tortured to death while the warriors turned Phyllis into a slave. Apaches liked to stake white people to anthills and pour honey over their faces. Or wrap rawhide thongs around a white man's head, and when the thongs dried, they crushed his skull.

  If any of them lays a hand on Phyllis, I'll go for his throat, and I don't care what they do to me. He swallowed hard, because death would be nothing compared to what could happen to Phyllis. He flashed on the monastery in the clouds, where every day was like the last, full of prayers, books, and bread baked in the monastery ovens.

  I'm here because of animal lust, he confessed to himself. Then he recalled Proverbs 6:27: Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?

  He glanced ahead at the convoluted passageway, and the climb had only just begun. Just keep going, he told himself. You can't be delicate in front of these damned injuns.

  Marshal Dan Stowe examined his equipment one last time, as potbellied Mr. Gibson puffed a Pittsburgh stogie. They were standing at the hitching rail in front of Gibson's General Store, and the lawman made certain the cinches weren't too tight on his riding horse or the load unevenly distributed on his packhorse, a sad-faced creature with long ears always in motion, listening for news.

  “What'll you do if you run into Apaches?” Mr. Gibson asked, flicking an ash off his stogie.

  “The trick is not to run into them in the first place.”

  “They say they got eyes in the backs of their heads.”

  “So do I.” Marshal Stowe placed his boot toe into the stirrup and raised himself into the saddle. “If any letters come for me, hold them till I get back. And if I don't get back, forward them to the U.S. Marshal's office, San Antone.” The lawman touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat as the horses pulled into the street. He settled into the saddle, adjusted his hat low over his eyes, and rode toward the edge of town, rocking in the saddle with the motion of his horse's hooves.

  He'd gone on many man-hunting expeditions, and it was a matter of simple persistence, unless the Apaches had found Braddock and Miss Thornton first. At the edge of town, a door opened in front of a familiar house and a tall blonde wearing a purple ankle-length dress appeared. Marshal Stowe pulled back his reins and the horses came to a halt beside Mrs. Vanessa Dawes. She looked at him solemnly and said, “I understand that you've spoken to my husband.”

  “He refused to withdraw his charges, ma'am. I'm sorry.”

  “That bastard!” she said bitterly. Then she tried to smile. “Just promise me one thing. Please don't shoot first and ask questions afterward. And please be gentle with him. I know that you have no reason to trust me, but Duane really is a decent boy. I can look you straight in the eye and tell you that he isn't a murderer.”

  Marshal Stowe couldn't help grinning at the fervor of her plea. “What about all the people he shot, and the ones he punched in the mouth?”

  “There's always some bully who wants to pick a fight with him. Is he supposed to lie down and let them do it?”

  He placed his arm on the pommel and leaned toward her. “Mrs. Dawes—if it will help your beautiful head to rest more easily at night, I promise that I'll be extremely reasonable with Duane Braddock, and I won't rattle him in any way.”

  “God bless you,” she replied with a sigh of relief.

  He touched his spurs to the belly of his horse, tipped his hat, and the animals plodded on to the darkening sage.

  CHAPTER 3

  SMALL, DARK HUTS WERE SCATTERED over a hilltop in the midst of ravines and steep gorges. A waterfall in the distance made a constant dull roaring, and sentries were posted high on the ridges, watching for the approach of enemies. If Duane hadn't come here himself, he wouldn't have believed that people could live in such a remote godforsaken spot.

  The huts were as tall as an Apache, constructed of branches and animal skins. The entrances all faced east, and they were small hovels with no windows, quite different from tepees of the Plains Indians or hogans of the Navaho. Duane, Phyllis, and the warriors advanced toward the camp, while Apaches of both sexes and all ages emerged from the huts. The women wore buckskin skirts and blouses, while the men had on white breechcloths, moccasin boots, and red bandannas. They jabbered excitedly to each other as Duane maneuvered his horse alongside Phyllis's. The Pecos Kid and the rancher's daughter looked into each other's eyes significantly. Both knew that they might be torn from limb to limb in the minutes to come. He reached out his hand and grabbed hers, for that last bit of warmth. They squeezed, and she made a brave smile. “We'll be just fine,” she said, trying to convince both of them.

  Apaches swarmed around Delgado, asking questions in their rasping language. The chieftain replied, and a woman began to wail. The wounded boy was lowered to the arms of another woman. The villagers appeared disturbed and a few glowered accusingly at Duane and Phyllis.

  “If they come for us,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, “just fight them until they kill you. It's the easiest way, according to what the old cowboys say.”

  Phyllis set her mouth in a grim line. It looked like Apache women were about to attack, and she wished that her fingernails were longer. “They'll never take me alive,” she said evenly.

  One group of Apaches made a circle around the boy, and the rest surrounded Duane and Phyllis. Delgado alighted from his horse and broke through the crowd. He looked up at Duane and said, “Get down.”

  Duane and Phyllis lowered themselves to the ground, and the Apaches inched closer. Duane and Phyllis tensed, waiting for the first knife thrust. Then Delgado launched into an Apache speech while the others listened intently. Duane's flesh crawled at the sight of so many vicious savages. He gazed into their eyes and saw bottomless incomprehensibility. He'd heard stories of white men being skinned alive, or tied to cactus plants with rawhide, and as the rawhide shrank, it pulled you slowly into death from a thousand sharp needles. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold himself together.

  Next to him, Phyllis was pale as the wisp of a cloud floating across the sky. She'd lived a pampered life and had never been on her own before. But she swore that she wouldn't whimper and cry, even if they burned her at the stake. She was Big Al Thornton's daughter, and she'd fight them till her dying breath. Women wailed and shrieked at the edge of the crowd. It was bizarre, and Phyllis's hair stood on end. Then Delgado turned toward Duane.

  “Follow me.”

  Duane looked in his eyes for the lie, couldn't find it, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. You couldn't trust Apaches, and it appeared that the worst was yet to come. Delgado waded into the crowd, and the Apaches made a path for him. Duane tried to orient himself but had no point of reference. They could be anywhere, and possibly even in Mexico. He followed Delgado through a sea of faces, some expressionless, others openly hostile. Duane was certain that a hatchet would fall on his head at any moment.

  His hand found Phyllis's, and they squeezed tightly. He looked at her, and her jaw was set firmly. She was ready to go down fighting, and his heart swelled with pride for the courage of his woman. “If I have to die,” he told her, “I'd rather do it with you than anybody else.”

  “Thanks, Duane,” she replied dryly, for she wasn't eager to die under any circumstances.

  Delgado led them closer to the huts, and Duane examined pots, baskets, and bones lying on the ground. The children were naked except for breechcloths and red bandannas, jumping around like monkeys. A screech arose from the far side of the camp, and Duane shivered at the inhuman sound. Stew simmered in pots atop small fires that emitted no smoke, and the food didn't smell bad to two Texans who hadn't eaten all day. It appeared that they were headed for a hut in the midst of the others.

  “Wait here,” said Delgado. Then he ducked and disappeared into the hut. Grunts and murmurs could be heard from within, while Duane and Phyllis held each other's hands tightly and tried to be hopeful. They'd arriv
ed at the residence of somebody important, who presumably would pass judgment.

  A flap of antelope skin at the door to the hut was pushed to the side. Delgado emerged and stood respectfully to the side, like a guard at Buckingham Palace. Duane's eyes were drawn to the tent flap, from which a great personage would doubtless come forth. A gnarled brown hand appeared, the flap exploded, and a tall, husky Apache came into view, with the face of a cruel old man, the corners of his mouth turned down. He wore the standard knee-high moccasin boots and white breechcloth, with a blue cavalry officer's shirt and a belt that supported a knife and a pistol of strange manufacture. He peered intently at Duane, who braced himself for the worst.

  The old man opened his semitoothed mouth and delivered an oration in his exotic tongue. Duane didn't know whether it was a welcome to Apache Land or a death sentence. It went on for some time, and Duane glanced at Delgado, to catch a hint of what was being said, but Delgado was expressionless, like a statue carved from mahogany.

  Then the old chief reached forward, and Duane realized with a jolt that he wanted to shake hands. Duane expected a sneaky Apache trick, but all he could do was reciprocate. The old chief clasped Duane's hand warmly in both of his and muttered something unintelligible.

  Delgado interpreted the statement. “He thanks you for saving the life of his grandson, and wants to give you five horses. He is Pinotay, our chief.”

  Duane had no need of five horses, but all he could say was “Tell him that we thank him for his generosity.”

  Delgado relayed the message, and the chief smiled. Then he launched into another oration as the crowd listened devoutly. Once again Delgado interpreted. “He says that you and your woman can stay here as his guest, until the posse stops looking for you. Then you can go on your way.”