Apache Moon

by Len Levinson

  The chief appeared at the entrance, and a grin appeared on his face. “I am so happy to see you again, Miguelito.”

  Miguelito handed him the bottle of whiskey, and the chief led him into the wickiup. The fire was out, but the faint trace of woodsmoke was in the air. Miguelito filled his corncob pipe with tobacco, lit it, and passed it to the chief, who sucked the stem until his eyes popped out.

  “I am here to learn what you need,” Miguelito said. “Soon I will return with my wagon, and we will trade. Do you have horses?”

  “Soon we will have many, do not worry about that. I will call a council tonight, to find out what you should bring us. Do you have any news?”

  “Yes,” Miguelito replied. “The White Eyes are looking for the woman that you have captured.”

  The chief was taken aback. “She is not a captive and can leave whenever she wants. Her man is here, too.” The chief explained the bloody and tragic events that had brought the two White Eyes to their camp, and Miguelito listened carefully.

  “The renegades must be wiped out,” Miguelito declared, “but why don’t the White Eyes return to their people?”

  “Because the man likes us, and Cucharo says he is part Apache.”

  Miguelito didn’t mention the White Eyes again because he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. The old chief sipped white lightning as Miguelito reflected upon the reward. I can buy a load of whiskey, water it down, and quadruple my money in thirty days. I knew I’d find the White Eyes girl before long. The marshal will be happy, but I wonder what’s in this for him?

  Duane heard a sound behind him as he awakened in the darkness. He reached for his Bowie knife; a hawk cried in the distance, and the full moon hung in the sky.

  He could spot no hungry creature sneaking up on him and wasn’t sure of what day it was. His mouth was dry, stomach hollow, and fingers tingled. He felt eerie and peculiar in the moonlight, and it was difficult to see clearly. Nocturnal hunters had emerged from their dens, while bats flitted across the sky. “Cucharo?”

  There was no answer. Duane made his way toward the barrel cactus that he’d cut open earlier in the day. The pulp had dried, and flies buzzed around. He cut in deeper, for moist sweet flesh. Then he sat cross-legged and chewed the liquid out of it.

  He reckoned that it was the middle of the night. I wonder how long I’ll have to stay here? He missed Phyllis and realized that he was neglecting her, but it wasn’t every day that a man could learn the Apache lifeway. Absentmindedly he touched his fingers to the scar on his throat.

  Something growled behind him, his hair stood on end, and he turned around. A mountain lion stood there, glowing in the light of the moon. Duane was on his feet in a second, poised, the Bowie knife in his right hand. The lion dropped into a crouch, ready to spring, and its claws were enormous.

  Duane struggled to shift from his meditative pose to the dripping fangs before him. It looked like down and dirty to the bitter end with one of the most dangerous beasts of the desert. He held the Bowie knife in his right fist, dug in his heels, and his heart pounded wildly as he prepared for the gory encounter that loomed before him.

  The lion sprang, its claws reaching for Duane's face, while Duane slashed at the great cat's belly. The animal floated closer, as if in slow motion, and moonlight glinted off its sharp claws, while its eyes sparkled like obsidian. Duane could smell the beast's rotten-meat breath as he rammed the knife in to the hilt.

  His hand met no resistance, and he passed through the lion's body. As Duane spun around, the lion disappeared. Then Duane looked from side to side, wondering what had happened to the ferocious creature. He dropped to his knees and searched for tracks, but there were none where the lion had been.

  Duane became afraid for the first time since Cucharo had left him. A bizarre event had occurred, and he didn't know what to make of it. He knew that he hadn't dreamed the lion because no dream could be that vivid. Or could it?

  What the hell is real? He looked around, trying to understand. Am I awake or asleep? He no longer felt in control, and it terrified him. Maybe I should go back to the camp, and to hell with this Apache business. I don't want to be a warrior that bad. But then he thought of Cucharo's disapproval, and even Phyllis would be contemptuous, for she was becoming an Apache against her will, with the same harsh code.

  Hallucinating a lion isn't so terrible, he tried to persuade himself. Be thankful that it wasn't real. Duane felt the need to pray and dropped to his knees. “I've always tried to be a good Christian,” he explained to God. “It's not as though I was a horse thief or a murderer.”

  An eel crawled up his back, because he realized that he'd committed many sins in his life, from drunken brawls to fornication with prostitutes, and he'd coveted a few wives, too. He'd even shot some people, though it was in self-defense. I'm no angel, he realized, and maybe the time has come for me to pay for my sins.

  He had the disquieting sensation that something was occurring behind him. He was afraid to look, but afraid not to. He took a deep breath, reversed position slowly, and held the knife in his right hand. He perceived a faint ghostly glow at the top of the mountain. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to make out what it was. Are my eyes playing tricks again? The moon and stars pulsated rhythmically as insects sang Gregorian chants. He wondered what had been in that barrel cactus as his eyes returned to the top of the mountain. The truth finally dawned upon him. It's Cucharo, and he's lit a fire!

  Duane ran up the hill like a bull charging the red cape. His legs worked like pistons, his lungs sucked wind, and the glow became brighter as a figure stood in its midst. “Cucharo—am I glad to see you!”

  Duane drew closer and realized that it wasn't Cucharo at all. To his amazement, an Apache woman came into view, wearing a dyed white buckskin dress, as golden effulgence emanated from her being. She wore white moccasins decorated with tiny red beads, and her hair was jet-black, bound with a white linen headband.

  Duane stopped cold in his tracks and struggled to understand. This evidently is a visitation of the Virgin Mary, he told himself. I'm having a religious experience, and it's nothing to go loco about. He pinched himself, but it hurt. All he could do was drop to his knees and bow his head before the radiance of the ghostly apparition.

  “Come closer,” she said.

  He wanted to run, but she held her arms out to him tenderly. The music of the desert swelled in his ears as he arose. A silver thread pulled him toward her, and her eyes filled with bottomless compassion. Flower petals rained upon him from the sky, she wrapped her arms around him, and he filled with delicious sweetness. Tears of joy welled up in his eyes as she kissed his fore-head.

  He'd never felt so protected, warm, and cozy. He closed his eyes as she lowered him gently to the ground. He was deeply asleep as soon as he touched down, and she covered him with a white blanket. Then she sat beside him, strummed a lutelike instrument, and hummed an Apache melody into the night.

  Phyllis sat bolt upright in the wickiup, covered with cold sweat. Her heart beat swiftly; she felt menaced and reached for Duane. But he was on the desert with the strange old medicine man, and God only knew what was happening to him.

  She returned to her animal skins and searched for a comfortable spot on the ground. She was worried about Duane, because he wasn't a real Apache warrior and the desert was full of danger at night. She wondered what would happen if he were killed. Will they let me leave, or will a warrior claim me as his woman? She imagined seminaked Apaches fighting for her virtue, and she'd have to go with the winner or else. Apaches lived according to their own codes; they left their old ones to die and killed babies due to superstition and ignorance. The unforgiving desert had produced an unforgiving people.

  In the cozy warmth beneath her animal skins, she entertained certain naughty thoughts concerning Delgado, the Apache aristocrat sleeping with one of his royal consorts. She couldn't help wondering what it was like to make love with a savage, compared to a civilized man like Duane. Am I missing something? she
asked herself as she hugged the animal skins closer. But I'd never actually do it, I really don't think. I'm not that loco, or am I?

  The sun seared Duane's eyes; it was midday, and he felt as if he'd slept for a long time. The woman in white was gone, and he figured she'd been a dream. Must be something in the air up here, he thought. He was hungry, so he walked down the hill to the vegetation line, dug roots out of the ground, and plucked fruit from cactus plants. Then he carried his lunch to the top of the mountain, sat, and proceeded to dine.

  His head felt clear, and his ears could discern a bird singing like a flute in the distance. The food disappeared rapidly as natural juices satiated his thirst. He thought of his strange dreams and wondered what they meant. He'd been certain that the lion would kill him, and the Apache woman had felt real. The mountain experience was unsettling him, and he wanted to return to the village but hated to be a quitter. He wondered how much longer he'd have to stay there, exposed to the elements. Clouds scudded across the sky, and it looked like rain. Duane was restless and decided to build a shelter.

  Somebody hollered suddenly, and Duane jumped three inches into the air. He saw an Apache climbing the mountain, and Duane had never seen him before. Duane was alarmed by the knife in his hand, an angry expression on his face. Duane realized that the Apache was going to attack!

  Duane jumped to his feet, yanked out his Bowie knife, and prepared to defend himself. Is this a dream, too? he asked himself as the Apache warrior lunged. Duane danced nimbly to the side as the Apache rushed past him. Then Duane charged, while the Apache spun around. They confronted each other, not more than six feet apart. The Apache was taller than Duane, more heavily muscled, but older, with a scar on his chin. The Apache feinted with his knife, and Duane took a step backward. He wanted to run for his life, but the Apache would get him in the back. “I haven't done anything to you!” Duane blurted. “Are you sure that you don't have me mixed up with somebody else?”

  The Apache shouted something unintelligible and rammed his knife toward Duane's gut. Duane grabbed the Apache's wrist while driving his own knife toward the Apache's heart. But the Apache's free hand stopped his thrust in midair. They were locked together, grappling frenziedly, trying to gain an advantage. Their faces were inches apart, and Duane could see flames burning behind the Apache's eyes. They heaved, but each was unmovable.

  Duane snaked his leg around the Apache, pushed, and the Apache dropped backward. Duane found himself off balance, lost his footing, and toppled over the Apache. Next thing Duane knew, he was falling head over heels down the steep side of the mountain. It was covered with rocks, twigs, and ridges; he landed on his left shoulder, rolled over, bounced around, and then his head struck a boulder, opening a two-inch gash, while his left arm hit the branch of a tree, nearly snapping off his wrist. He fell past a small cave, in which a bear lay sleeping, and the sound caused the creature to open its eyes and snarl.

  Duane continued plummeting down the side of the mountain. He grasped a sapling, pulled it out by the roots, tossed over, tumbled about, his face scratched by branches, his shirt flayed. He saw the solid trunk of a ponderosa pine, reached out wildly, and tackled it, nearly shattering his shoulder.

  He'd terminated his fall but was dazed, more dead than alive. He'd never relinquished his knife from his grip, however, and swung it around, expecting the Apache to jump on top of him.

  But the Apache hadn't followed him down. Is this a dream, too? he wondered. I wish I could wake up. His clothes had become rags, he was covered with contusions and abrasions, and the sole was torn off his left boot. For the first time it occurred to him that he might not survive his trip to the desert.

  He continued to search for the Apache and spotted a cave cut into a rock wall. He limped toward it, peered inside, and saw that it was tall enough for him to stand. His eyes fell on something lying in the middle of the floor, and he readied his knife as he approached cautiously. It was a white breechcloth, deerskin moccasins, and a red headband. “Cucharo?” he asked.

  There was no answer as his voice reverberated through deep caverns. Duane touched his hand to the fabric and wondered how it got there. Then he removed his torn clothing and put on the breechcloth, tying it with the belt that held his knife. The moccasins fit perfectly, and he wrapped the red headband around his head. A tiny clay pot sat before him, filled with vermillion paste. He stuck his finger into it and ran it across his nose and cheeks.

  Then he stood and noticed a shimmer in the back of the cave. Holding the point of the knife before him, he advanced toward it. The closer he came, the lower his jaw dropped in amazement. The rear of the cave was a solid gold wall! He picked up a nugget as big as his thumb. It gleamed and glittered within its depths, but something told him to leave it alone. Cucharo had told him that yellow metal was sacred to the People because it belonged to the mountain spirits. He dropped the nugget as if it were a hot coal and backed toward the entrance of the cave.

  Clouds covered the sky as he swiftly climbed the side of the mountain. His skin felt electrified without the restrictions of clothing, and the leather soles of the moccasins gripped the rocks better than his cowboy boots. Up the crags he went, enjoying the exercise. When he arrived at the summit, a bolt of lightning rent the heavens.

  He stood with his legs spread, fists resting on his hips, and watched storm clouds boil and rumble in the sky. In the distance jags of lightning flew to the ground like iridescent Apache lances. The mountain shook with pealing cannonades of thunder as swirling mists gathered closer. Duane bowed his head to the power of Yusn as the holy water baptized him, cleansing his wounds and washing away his sins.

  “Sir—wake up!”

  Lieutenant Dawes lay in his bedroll as rain lashed him and the heavens roared. Sergeant Mahoney's face was distorted with fury. “Apaches got the horses!”

  Dawes jumped out of his bedroll, drew his service revolver, and ran toward the picket line in his stocking feet. Hatless, his heart pounded thickly; the rain was so heavy he couldn't see anything. In the distance he heard shouting, gunfire, confusion. Suddenly a figure materialized out of the night, lying on the ground before him. It was a trooper stripped of every article of clothing, his equipment gone and his throat cut from ear to ear.

  “They got all the horses!” Sergeant Mahoney said bitterly. “I knowed this'd happen, you goddamned idiot!”

  The truth struck Dawes with full force. He staggered toward the picket line, and the lines were cut, every horse stolen. The men crowded around in the pouring rain as the full implications sank in. Gaunt, grizzled, bedraggled, with water dripping from their campaign hats, they were stranded in Apache territory, and the odds were that they wouldn't survive! Corporal Hazelwood came running out of the storm. “The guards're all dead!”

  Lieutenant Dawes wasn't prepared for the dilemma, but all he could do was rely upon his West Point training. “They're dead because they were asleep!” he bellowed angrily. “They let the Apaches sneak up on them! Hereafter, I'll expect my guards to stay awake, otherwise they'll get the firing squad!”

  They looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Then Private Cruikshank snickered. “I'm a-gittin’ sick of this son of a bitch!”

  Lieutenant Dawes yanked out his service pistol, and every man in the vicinity followed suit. They all aimed their weapons at each other in the midst of the pounding storm, and he realized that he'd finally gone around the bend. With a nervous smile, he returned his pistol to his holster. Rainwater dripped off the end of his nose as he said, “Let me remind you that I'm still in command, and not one of you has been relieved of your duties. We've got to pull together and get the hell out of here.”

  Private Cruikshank snarled, “We'll never get out of here, you goddamned horse's ass! We're miles from the nearest settlement, and the Apaches're all around us!”

  “They didn't get our guns and ammunition,” Lieutenant Dawes replied as rain soaked his clothing and filled his boots. “We can fight them off if we hold together like soldiers. We k
now where the last water hole is, and there's wild game everywhere. There's no cause for panic.”

  “He's right,” agreed Sergeant Mahoney, aiming his U.S. Army Colt at Cruikshank. “He's the rankin’ officer, and this is still the Fourth Cavalry. I'll tolerate no more back talk, gripin’, or horseshit. What're yer orders, sir?”

  Lieutenant Dawes had no idea what to say. One moment he'd been sleeping peacefully and now had been plunged into the most terrible predicament of his career. He remembered a line from the famous war manual written by the Prussian General Karl von Clausewitz:

  The most important component of field command is the ability to remain calm, and make rational decisions in the face of the most overwhelming reversals.

  Lieutenant Dawes pulled back his shoulders, set his jaw, and said, “When the storm stops, we'll head north. Post four more guards, Sergeant Mahoney. I intend to check them personally during the night, and if I catch anybody sleeping, I'll shoot him on the spot. Now let's get out of the rain.”

  The heavens pealed with the cymbals of Yusn as sheets of water whipped them. They tramped back to the campsite, and Lieutenant Dawes was pleased with the way he'd handled the emergency. He knew that an officer must present a facade of strength and resolution to his men, regardless of what terror he was feeling. Lieutenant Dawes had studied the lessons of modern warfare, but how can you defeat an enemy whom you can't see?