by Len Levinson
They came to cottonwood trees, and the temperature dropped as the water came into view. Grass and shrubs surrounded the hole, interspersed with bare desert sand. Private Duckworth was already on his belly, his face in the water, drinking deeply. The bluecoat soldiers stumbled down the incline, dropped to their knees, lowered their faces into the water, and slaked their leathery throats with ambrosia.
Lieutenant Dawes gulped thirstily. Thank you, God, for your wonderful blessing. You've shown mercy to a sinner, and if we ever make it back to civilization, I'll become a minister of your Holy Word.
He saw himself as a bumbling lecherous fool who'd finally found the truth. I'll preach sermons of piety and redemption, based on my own personal experiences, and deter people from the hellish paths that I myself have trod.
It was the last coherent thought that Lieutenant Dawes had as a rushing sound came to him from the far side of the well. He raised his head and was stunned by the sight of Apaches in war paint bursting out of the ground, with knives, lances, and war clubs in their hands. Sergeant Mahoney shouted the alarm, and Lieutenant Dawes was reaching for his service revolver when an Apache slammed him in the middle of the forehead with a war club. Lieutenant Dawes's skull cracked down the middle, blood seeped out the edges, and he collapsed onto the ground.
The bluecoat soldiers were slaughtered in seconds, their blood flowing in rivulets into the deep dark waters of the well. The Apache renegades stripped away weapons, clothing, Lieutenant Dawes's gold tooth, and everything else of value. They plundered and mutilated like fiends, and their leader was Jamata, the evil sorcerer.
Jamata cut off the officer's penis and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he disemboweled him, guts spilling onto the ground like angry, bloodsoaked snakes. Finally he cut off a patch of the officer's hair as a trophy.
The other renegades did the same. They were the dregs of the Apache nation, and they'd denounced their holy lifeway for rape, murder, and pillage. They'd plotted the route of the soldiers for days, knew the bluecoats would find the water hole, and dug themselves into the ground, to wait patiently for their arrival.
They worked methodically at their gruesome task, until all the soldiers were butchered. Then they gathered up the booty and carried it to the gully where their horses were tethered. They mounted up and retreated into the desert as silently as they'd come. Soon they were gone, and circling buzzards swooped leisurely from the sky for the fabulous fresh meat spread before them. Like gentlemen in black formal suits and orange boots, they settled amid the corpses and dug their beaks into tender body parts.
Gootch had seen it all from a cave cut into a nearby mountain. He was one of a group of scouts spread out across the desert, watching, studying, and waiting for the renegades to show their faces. He knew that good Apaches would be blamed for the bloody deed, more bluecoat soldiers would come to the land, there would be war, and Gootch could see no end to it.
But the war was a long way off. Now his task was to follow the renegades back to their camp, so he could report its location to Chief Pinotay. Extreme caution was required, because the renegades were Apaches, too, with the same knowledge and skills as he. Gootch watched them ride across the rolling desert and waited patiently. He didn't want to get too close, for they might detect his presence.
The flames of vengeance burned hotly within him, for one of his sisters had been killed in the previous massacre. He yearned for the opportunity to slice off Jamata's head. Meanwhile his cave was silent, dank, and smelled of old coyote manure. Gootch's father had brought him here as a boy, for it was a good observation post. The People knew every water hole, cave, and hiding spot in Arizona, New Mexico, southwest Texas, and Mexico, while the White Eyes wandered around like fools. Gootch couldn't help feeling contempt for the bluecoat soldiers who'd let themselves be slaughtered so easily. The Apache warrior believed that they lacked inner strength, because of the way they raised their children. When a White Eyes baby cried, the grown-ups tried to soothe him, but when an Apache baby was out of sorts, they hung his cradleboard on a tree and let him cry himself out. Gootch thought that the White Eyes spoiled their children, and that's why they grew fragile.
Gootch peeked outside. The renegades were gone, but not their tracks. He crawled out of the cave, heading for a stand of trees where his horse was tethered. “I will track you down, Jamata,” he swore beneath his breath. “You will not escape the wrath of the People.”
Phyllis ground corn between heavy circular stones. It was hard work, and her arms were getting tired. She wore the standard Apache woman's deerskin blouse, skirt, and boots because her cowboy clothes had been demolished in her tumultuous recent encounter with Duane. Something had happened to him during his time with Cucharo, but he wouldn't tell her the particulars.
Phyllis glanced at nearby women grinding corn. Like them, she was sweaty, tired, in need of a bath, and possessed no underwear. The routine of Apache life was becoming dull grim routine. Sometimes she had the urge to sit on a chair and read a book.
Her bedroom shelves had been full of Lord Byron, Washington Irving, and Keats, among others. Her mother was a former schoolmarm and ordained that Phyllis spend many hours penetrating the minds of great thinkers. Now, as the novelty of Apache life wore off, she missed the intellectual pastime. But Duane had convinced himself that he was an Apache and Yusn had sent him special messages from the great beyond.
Phyllis adored Duane, but there was much in his character that she deplored. He seemed to lack basic common sense, perhaps because he'd been raised in a monastery far from the harsh realities of life. She couldn't understand how the happy-go-lucky cowboy had become an Apache so quickly. He's like a chameleon, but what's his true identity?
Children burst onto the scene, jabbering wildly. Phyllis had lived in the camp long enough to understand what they were saying. The warriors were returning after a successful antelope hunt. The women moved toward the path that led to the camp, to greet their men.
The warriors were already halfway up the ravine, dead antelope lashed head down over their horses’ backs. Phyllis spotted Duane, taller than most Apaches, with his six-gun slung low over his breechcloth. The warriors arrived at the top of the mountain, dismounted, and Duane kissed his wife. “I shot a fat one,” he said happily. Then he untied the antelope and dumped it at her feet. She stared at it as he led his horse to the corral.
The dead antelope's eyes were open and staring, and a ribbon of blood dribbled from its mouth. Duane had cut his arrow out of the animal's lungs because an Apache warrior doesn't throw good arrows away.
“Duane!” she called out.
He ignored her as he headed toward the corral. She shouted his name again and ran after him. “I want to talk with you!”
He turned around, his features stern as an Apache's. There was something about him that frightened her.
“You may not realize it,” she said, “but skinning and cooking an antelope is an enormous job. I didn't mind it when we were in Delgado's household because there wasn't so much to do. But now that you're a warrior yourself, it's getting too much for me.”
He didn't smile or say something kind. “I will return you to the White Eyes and find another woman who is not lazy.” He stared calmly at her, betraying no emotion.
She looked at him in disbelief as his words struck her like daggers. But she was the daughter of Big Al Thornton and couldn't let herself cry. “I think you've finally gone loco,” she said. “You're even speaking English like an Apache.”
“I need a woman who can do a woman's work. Maybe it's best if you went home.”
“But this is just a game you're playing, Duane. Like the Pecos Kid. If you ever make one of these real Apaches mad, they'll skin you alive.”
“I will talk to Delgado and find out how to return you to your people.”
Phyllis maintained her outward calm. “Is that all I am to you? Somebody to skin the antelope?” Phyllis's vanity was wounded because it appeared that he was dumping her. “What if I do
n't want to go back?”
“You will become a bi-zahn, and no one will bring you antelope meat.”
“What if I marry Delgado?” she asked tauntingly.
“What makes you think he wants you?”
“Get him out here, and we'll ask him.”
She ran toward the wickiup where Delgado had last entered, and now it was Duane's turn for shock. He didn't want her to marry Delgado because he still loved her madly. But she didn't like the Apache lifeway, and he'd been trying to bluff her into a few more weeks. He felt baffled as she came to a stop in front of the warrior's wickiup. “Delgado!”
A crowd gathered, and children drew closer, their eyes dancing with delight. Old people crawled out of their wickiups, for the day's entertainment was about to begin. The White Eyes were squabbling again, and Delgado was about to be drawn in.
The son of the chief poked his head out of his wickiup and looked at Phyllis. “What do you want, woman?”
“Duane and I aren't going to live together anymore, and I was wondering if I could become one of your wives.”
Delgado nearly fell on his face, so astounded was he by the sudden proposal. Apaches muttered among themselves as Phyllis's words were translated for those who spoke no English. Delgado crawled out of his wickiup and drew himself to his full height. He turned toward Duane and said, “Is this true?”
“She won't butcher the antelope I brought home, and I offered to return her to her father. But she said she'd rather marry you.”
Delgado regarded the White Eyes woman through slitted eyes, and he had to admit, in his heart of hearts, that he'd lusted for her since the day they'd met. He tried to smile affably, but it came out awry. “I am sorry, but I do not think it would be right if I married my friend's wife.”
“But Duane doesn't want me anymore,” Phyllis replied. She turned to her former man. “Tell him the truth.”
Duane couldn't admit that he was jealous, but sweet little Phyllis had defeated him yet again. All he could say was “She is lazy, and she is still a White Eyes in her heart. She should go back to her people.”
“I don't want to go back,” Phyllis insisted. “I want to be Delgado's latest wife.”
Delgado shrugged and pretended to be unconcerned. “If she does not want to leave, how can we force her? And if she does not want to live with you, we cannot make her. Maybe I should ask the chief what to do.”
Phyllis was insulted by Delgado's disinterest. “What do you want to ask the chief for?” she asked. “I don't want to marry him. The decision is yours to make.”
Delgado sighed as he turned to Duane. “If she becomes a bi-zahn, there will be no end of the trouble she makes. All right, I will marry her. I am sure that soon she will want to return to her people and then she will go. I will give you two horses for her.”
Duane couldn't admit that he didn't want her to marry Delgado because it would give her the upper hand yet again. I'm supposed to be a mean son of a bitch, but that little cowgirl beats me every time. The mere thought made him angry, and he announced, “She's not worth two horses. I'll take one horse, and it doesn't have to be very good.”
Phyllis's calm exterior shattered, and she let out an angry screech. Baring her teeth, extending her fingernails, she ran across the clearing, headed for Duane. He stood slackly, a bored expression on his face, and waited until she came close. Then he plucked her out of the air, turned her over his knee, and proceeded to spank her.
The Apaches exploded with laughter, hugging their sides, jumping up and down. They'd never seen anybody get spanked before and considered it hilarious. Duane slapped her bottom heartily, while she writhed in his lap. Delgado howled until tears came to his eyes, and then his knees became jelly and he had to sit down.
Suddenly a guard appeared, running toward the campsite. He hollered something, and Duane unceremoniously dumped Phyllis off his lap. He drew his six-gun as the Apaches grabbed knives, guns, lances, bows and arrows. The joyful atmosphere transformed suddenly into danger as Gootch rode into the camp at a gallop. He pulled back his reins and shouted in the Apache language. Phyllis had learned enough words to catch the gist of what he was saying. He'd found the hideout of the renegades!
Phyllis was forgotten as Delgado and the other warriors gathered in front of the chief's tent. Duane joined them, along with Cucharo, and they discussed plans for the revenge raid as the women looked on warily from the distance. Phyllis sat beside Huera and asked, “Am I Duane's wife or Delgado's?”
“You are an idiot. Don't you know that the warriors are going on a raid and their success depends upon us? If we are bad, evil will come to the warriors. If we are good, the warriors will win the fight. You will pray with us while the warriors are gone, but first you must skin your antelope.”
Huera's order left no room for argument, discussion, or vanity. The warrior queen walked away as Phyllis gazed with distaste at the dead antelope. She pulled out her knife, dropped to her knees, sliced into the animal's flesh around its ankles, and pulled the skin loose. How did I ever get mixed up with these people? she asked herself. What the hell am I doing here?
The renegade cave was cut into the side of a mountain ten miles from the Apache camp. It could be approached only through a maze of narrow canyons, and enemies had to attack the final fifty yards across a bare rock incline with no cover. Guards were posted night and day, watching for surprise attacks.
The guards peered into the night as the renegade Property Dance was under way, tizwin flowing freely and a wild pig roasting over the fire. The renegades had painted their bodies in green, ochre, and vermillion stripes and writhed naked in the light of the fire. Jamata hopped among them, shrieking and giggling happily. In a corner, a couple copulated like dogs. Across the floor, another couple performed a mating act with the man on the bottom and the woman on the top. Everyone was naked, in the open, dancing and committing acts unthinkable in ordinary Apache society. Everything was permitted by Jamata, the more lewd and bloody, the better.
The evil di-yin had gathered them from across Apacheria, and their business was theft, murder, and mutilation. Some were sorcerers like Jamata, expelled by their people for nefarious activities. Others had stolen from the People or murdered kinsmen. A few felt cheated by the People, as though their true worth had never been truly appreciated. A few had lost at love and sought revenge among the renegades.
They believed that the old chiefs and di-yins were frauds, and the solution was to break all the rules. But the old chiefs and di-yins weren't on their minds that night as they barked like foxes and chirped like birds. They all despised the restrictions of the holy lifeway and wanted freedom from Yusn's onerous laws.
The women were as vicious as the men, and the children imps with flashing eyes who liked to torture small creatures for pleasure. Jamata had told them that if you feel something strongly, you must do it no matter what. The renegades squealed with glee as they twisted obscenely in the firelight, brandishing ill-gotten gains and fornicating everywhere.
War ponies galloped through the night as the People's best warriors rode bareback toward the renegades’ hideout. The warriors were seminaked, carrying lances, bows, arrows, rifles, and clubs. Everyone except Duane had known and revered the women who'd been killed, and many of the warriors had been relatives. Their hearts were filled with the lust for the renegades’ blood.
The war ponies exploded out of a gully and thundered mightily across a vast basin covered with cactus plants. The renegades had been killing, stealing, and bedeviling the People for too long. The time had come to even the score.
Duane rode in their midst, wearing his breechcloth and moccasin boots, covered with war paint, feeling exhilarated. Nothing he'd ever known could compare with the hellbent-for-leather Apache charge. It was as if their sacred lifeway had entered his blood and bones, and the pious seminary student was gone, along with the lonesome cowboy.
Now he was a warrior, too, his body rippling and strong, finally on the warpath. In addition to weap
ons, he carried a small bag of sacred pollen for its good influence, but his greatest power was in his Killer of Enemies bandolier, a loosely braided cord sash of two hide strings twisted about each other and draped across his body from the right shoulder to the left side. Only a di-yin could make a Killer of Enemies bandolier, and Duane had received his from Cucharo before the raid.
The horses raced across the desert, and Duane felt attuned to every other warrior. He opened his mouth wide and let out his war cry, his voice mingling with the others, as the riders sped onward, headed toward the destruction of the renegades.
Marshal Dan Stowe drowsed in his saddle, drifting in and out of war dreams. Surrounded by desert foliage, with insects buzzing around his hat, he envisioned himself in August of 1864, during a little-remembered battle of the great Civil War.
The Michigan Wolverine Brigade was bivouacking in Chester Gap, taking a well-deserved rest from the war and trying to enjoy a lunch of hardtack and tepid tea, when sentries burst onto the scene with alarming news. Confederate cavalry in substantial numbers were advancing down Front Royal Pike!
It had been an electric moment as all eyes turned to General Custer. The horses were already unsaddled, tents pitched, the food on the fire, but the Boy General never batted an eyelash. He turned calmly to his executive officer and said, “Call the men to horse.”
Sergeant Joseph Fought raised the bugle to his lips, and the battle-hardened Wolverines saddled and bridled their horses in only ten minutes. Skirmishes broke out among forward elements of infantry as General Custer rode to the top of a hill in the vicinity. He leaned on his pommel and studied the advance carefully. It was formed in a column of fours, consisting of a brigade of Rebel horsemen leading huge masses of infantry. Custer galloped back to his men, the battle plan forming in his mind. He ordered his artillery to rain death upon the advancing Confederates and then formed his cavalry in attack formation.