Apache Runaway

by Madeline Baker

  With a heavy heart, she knew she would have to defy Kayitah’s edict. She would have to give the prisoner food and water and whatever medical attention she could manage, or he was going to die. And if he died, all her dreams of escape would die with him.

  That night she lay awake long after Kayitah was asleep. If only she could somehow get away on her own. But no matter how many times she imagined such a thing, she knew it was impossible. Even if she managed to elude the sentries posted at the entrance to the canyon, there was no way she could hope to find her way through the crazy-quilt pattern of hills and canyons and desert that stretched for miles beyond the rancheria’s high purple walls. No way she could hope to survive in the wilderness alone.

  Two hours after midnight, Jenny summoned every ounce of courage she possessed and tiptoed out of Kayitah’s lodge.

  The village lay quiet under a cloak of darkness as she padded noiselessly toward where the prisoner was being held. Twice, dogs came toward her, stiff-legged with suspicion until they recognized her scent.

  In moments, she was within sight of the half-breed. He was awake. He looked cold and tired and terribly uncomfortable, and she heard him swear softly as he shifted his weight on the damp ground.

  Jenny smiled faintly. It was good to hear her own language again, even if the words were obscene.

  Gliding soundlessly through the shadows, Jenny knelt beside the prisoner. “Shhh,” she whispered at his startled look. “I’ve come to help you.”

  “Really? Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Please, be still,” Jenny begged. “I must not be caught here.”

  Fallon nodded, then winced as the woman ran her hand over his injured thigh.

  Jenny frowned as she peered intently at the wound. Even in the uncertain light cast by the moon, she could see that the wound was swollen and angry-looking. Tiny red streaks spread fanlike around the edges of the bullet hole.

  “It’s becoming infected,” she whispered. “Are you in much pain?”

  “No,” Fallon rasped sarcastically. “I feel just fine.”

  “I have no medicine,” Jenny told him regretfully. “Only this.”

  Reaching beneath the folds of the blanket that covered her head and shoulders, she withdrew a narrow-bladed Mexican dagger and a pint of cheap trade whiskey.

  Fallon’s eyes narrowed. “That’s pretty primitive,” he muttered dryly, “even for the Apache.”

  Jenny shrugged. “It’s all I have.”

  Fallon shook his head. “Forget it and cut me loose.”

  Jenny threw him a look that said he was crazy. “You can’t ride with that leg, and if the bullet doesn’t come out soon, there’ll be no point in removing it at all.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Fallon hissed.

  “If that bullet doesn’t come out now,” Jenny said flatly, “I think you’ll be dead in a week.”

  Fallon scowled as he heard his own thoughts put into words. “I think you’re right,” he agreed glumly. “Go ahead and cut it out.”

  Jenny held his gaze for a long moment. “If you cry out, we’ll both be dead in a week,” she muttered, and when Fallon made no reply, she began to brush the dirt from his thigh.

  “I only hope you are as brave as you seem,” she murmured under her breath, and uncorking the whiskey bottle, she dribbled a little of the amber liquid over the blade of the knife.

  “Wait!” Fallon whispered. He nodded at the bottle in her hand. “Give me a swig of that.”

  The woman hesitated a moment, then held the bottle to his lips while he took a long swallow.

  Ryder grimaced as the rotgut burned a path down his throat and pooled in his belly like liquid fire.

  “Go on,” he rasped, “cut the damn thing out.”

  With a supreme effort of will, Jenny put everything from her mind but the task at hand as she carefully guided the point of the slender blade into the malodorous hole. She swallowed hard as dark-red blood and thick yellow pus oozed from the wound.

  He’s got to live. He’s got to live. She repeated the words in her mind as she probed for the bullet, trying not to think of the pain her unskilled hands were causing him, trying not to let the knife cut into healthy tissue, trying to ignore the warm wet blood that stained her fingers.

  Waves of nausea assailed Fallon as the woman probed blindly for the slug buried deep in the meaty part of his right thigh. Too weak to resist the rising tide of vomit that rose in his throat, he turned his head to the side and retched.

  With a low groan, he felt himself slipping into blessed oblivion as the keen-edged blade bit deeper into his quivering flesh.

  “I’ve got it!” Jenny whispered triumphantly.

  The words pulled Fallon from the brink of unconsciousness and he let out a long breath, felt his taut muscles begin to relax as the tension slowly drained out of him.

  Jenny wiped the perspiration from her brow, her eyes warm with compassion as she let the wound bleed for a moment, letting the bright-red blood carry away the last of the pus.

  Without warning, she emptied the contents of the whiskey bottle into the gaping hole in his thigh.

  Fallon swore under his breath as the raw whiskey sizzled through him like liquid fire, sending long fingers of flame shooting up and down his right flank.

  Quick as a cat, Jenny covered his mouth with her hand. “Please be still,” she implored as she cast an anxious glance at the sleeping village. Fear made her weak. Discovery would mean death at the worst, a severe beating and humiliation at the least.

  Moving hurriedly now, she pressed a strip of clean cloth over the wound to stem the bleeding, then bent to examine the ugly blister on his flat belly.

  “Forget that,” Ryder rasped impatiently. “Get me some water.”

  Jenny nodded, a little irritated by his imperious tone. She was reaching for the waterskin at her side when a movement from a nearby wickiup caught her eye. With a wordless cry of distress, she snatched the cloth from the prisoner’s thigh and disappeared into the shadows.

  Fallon swore under his breath as a warrior emerged from a nearby lodge and relieved himself.

  Scowling blackly, Fallon searched the shadows for some sign of the woman, but she had gone, taking the water with her.

  Cursing the luck that had brought the warrior out of his lodge at such an inopportune time, he closed his eyes and was quickly asleep.

  The second day.

  Fallon woke with dawn’s first light to see upwards of a hundred warriors assembled at the center of the village, all armed and painted for war. The diyi chanted a few brief words as he sprinkled a handful of hoddentin to the four corners of the earth, entreating the Apache gods to bless the Dineh with victory over the white-skinned invaders.

  With a whoop, Niyokahe vaulted onto the back of his pony and raised his rifle high overhead. “Ho, brothers!” he cried in a loud voice. “It is a good day to die!”

  Wheeling his prancing mount in a tight rearing turn, the warrior sank his moccasined heels into the animal’s flanks and sent it galloping down the valley. The warriors raced after him, their war cries filling the air.

  “Zas-tee! Zas-tee! Netdahe! Netdahe!”

  The rousing cry trailed after the warriors like smoke in the wind as they rode out of the rancheria.

  “Kill! Kill! Death to all intruders! Death to all intruders! Death to all intruders!”

  Fallon wondered fleetingly where they were headed, and why Kayitah had chosen not to lead them. Then, remembering the night past, he glanced at his thigh. A fine layer of dust had been sprinkled around the wound lest someone notice that his right thigh was conspicuously cleaner than his left.

  Fallon grinned. So, she had come back after he’d fallen asleep.

  She hadn’t been a dream, after all.

  The morning dragged on with agonizing slowness. And still three more days to go. It seemed a lifetime. The smell of roasting rabbit and ash cakes set his empty stomach to rumbling, and his mouth watered as he stared at an ugly yellow h
ound gnawing on a bone heavy with raw meat. Damn! He was hungry enough to eat the bone, and the dog too!

  But worse than his hunger, worse than the growing numbness in his shoulders, worse than the nagging ache in his thigh, was the driving need for water, a desire that grew increasingly stronger as the hours went by.

  The moon was waning when Jenny again made her way to the prisoner’s side. Seeing that he was asleep, she touched his shoulder lightly.

  Fallon came awake instantly, surprised by her unexpected presence. She was taking a big risk, coming to his aid. What could she possibly hope to gain by putting her own life in danger?

  “I’ve brought water,” Jenny whispered.

  “Thank God.”

  “How badly do you want it?”

  The gentle compassion of the night before was noticeably absent from her voice.

  Fallon’s eyes narrowed to mere slits, and he swore under his breath. What the hell was she up to, anyway?

  “Dammit, lady,” he growled angrily, “I’m in no mood to play games.”

  “Nor am I,” Jenny retorted. “I need your help.”

  Fallon stared at her. “You need my help?” He snorted incredulously. “How in the hell can I help you when I can’t even help myself?”

  “I have been watching you these past two days,” Jenny replied urgently. “I do not think you will die. And I do not think you will like being a slave either. Sooner or later you will try to escape, and when you do, you will take me with you.”

  “Like hell!”

  “You won’t change your mind?”

  “Damn right. A man would have to be crazy to agree to such a…”

  But he was talking to the wind.

  The third day was long and warm. Warmer still for the fever that burned through him. His throat was dryer than dust, his tongue heavy and swollen in his mouth. Silently, he cursed his quick words of the night before, cursed the mysterious woman who had offered him relief only to snatch it out of his grasp, cursed the sun that was slowly leeching the moisture from his body, increasing his thirst until he could think of nothing else.

  The woman came to him again that night. Wordlessly, she examined his wound. Her hand was gentle, cool against his fevered flesh.

  “I will not ask you again,” Jenny warned softly. “Will you take me with you?”

  “Who the hell are you anyway?” Fallon asked irritably.

  “There’s no time for that now,” Jenny admonished. “Will you take me with you?” She held up a waterskin, shook it to tempt him.

  Fallon’s pride urged him to tell her to go to hell, but he couldn’t ignore the inviting sound of the water sloshing inside the waterskin, could not withstand his body’s incessant demand for water. Water to ease the choking dryness in his throat, to replace the moisture drained away by the sun and his own sweat.

  As if sensing his inner struggle, the woman shook the waterskin again.

  “All right, dammit, I’ll take you with me.”

  “I have your word? As a warrior?”

  Fallon scowled. “Yes, but for God’s sake, give me a drink before our friend with the weak bladder shows up again.”

  Suppressing a grin, Jenny held the waterskin to his lips, cautioning him to drink it slowly. The water was sweet and cold. He didn’t know she had left the filled container submerged in the river all day to keep it cool; he knew only that it tasted better than anything else the world had to offer.

  When he had taken the edge off his thirst, Jenny offered him a slice of succulent tenderloin, then another drink.

  Fallon studied the woman closely while she fed him, but try as he might, he couldn’t quite make out the features shadowed in the folds of the blanket that covered her head.

  She offered him a second slice of meat, a third, gave him one last drink from the waterskin, and then she was gone.

  Fallon let out a contented sigh. Whoever the hell the woman was, he was grateful for her help.

  Feeling better than he had in days, he closed his eyes.

  Two more days.

  The fourth day of Fallon’s captivity passed much the same as the others. Little girls pointed and giggled, little boys pelted him with rocks and dirt clods. The women taunted him, making jokes about his manhood, the rough beard that covered his jaw.

  The warriors ignored him.

  The sun burned down relentlessly.

  The fifth day dawned cold and wet as a summer storm watered the canyon. Huge raindrops fell sporadically at first, and Fallon breathed a silent prayer of thanks as he threw back his head and let the life-giving water run into his mouth and over his face.

  An hour later, the rain stopped and a pale sun broke through the clouds. Gradually, men and women began emerging from their lodges, all attention focused on the prisoner as the people waited to see if Winter Snow would claim the white man as her slave.

  But it was Alope who crossed the muddy ground and cut Fallon free. “Come,” she said curtly.

  “Wait!” Kayitah strode toward his wife, his face dark with anger and astonishment. “What are you doing?”

  “I wish to have this man as my slave.”

  “Why?”

  Alope shrugged. “You have a slave,” she remarked. “Now I have one.”

  “I forbid it.”

  “Then get rid of the white woman. Give her to Niyokahe, or trade her to the Comanche.”

  Kayitah glared at his wife, aware that they were being watched.

  “Do as you wish with the white man,” he replied coldly. “But know that you will regret it.”

  Turning on his heel, he returned to their lodge.

  Alope watched her husband walk away, pleased by his anger. He was jealous. It was a good sign.

  She nudged the white man with her foot. “Come,” she said again.

  Fallon rubbed his aching wrists as he slowly stood up. He felt as weak and helpless as a newborn pup. His legs were like rubber, his muscles stiff and sore. He stood for a moment, swaying slightly, aware of the eyes upon him.

  Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up to his full height and then, with his head high, followed the Indian woman into her lodge.

  Jenny glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise as Alope entered the wickiup, followed by the white man. She glanced at Kayitah, who was sitting beside the fire, his expression ominous. She had not questioned him when he returned to the lodge. If he was angry with her, she would find out soon enough.

  Puzzled, she studied the smug expression on Alope’s face and realized, abruptly, what had caused Kayitah’s foul mood. Alope had claimed the prisoner.

  Jenny’s gaze flew to the white man’s face. Did he recognize her? What if he said something? But when he looked at her, his expression was blank.

  Alope tapped Fallon on the arm, then gestured toward a moth-eaten robe spread in the rear of the lodge.

  “Rest,” she said curtly. “You will need your strength to work. If you do not work, you will not eat.”

  Fallon nodded. Mindful of his wounded thigh, he eased himself down on the robe and closed his eyes, thinking that a fluffy cloud in heaven could not have pleased him more.

  Chapter Six

  Jenny stared thoughtfully at the white man while he slept. His face was drawn and haggard even in sleep, his breathing shallow and uneven. Sweat dotted his brow, and when she bent to touch his forehead, it was warm with fever.

  With a sigh, she knelt beside him, glad for this time to be alone, with just the white man for company. Kayitah had gone hunting, Alope had gone with the other women to look for the narrow-leafed yucca plant, which would be roasted on a bed of live coals. It was a staple of the Apache diet. Dried, it could be stored for up to a year or pounded into a mixture with berries.

  Alope had ordered Jenny to stay behind with the prisoner, obviously thinking Jenny would view such a task as a hardship when, in truth, Jenny was glad to stay behind, glad to have some time to herself.

  She remained at the prisoner’s side all that day while the fever caused
by exposure to the sun and loss of blood burned through him. With infinite patience, she mopped the sweat from his face and neck, replaced the blanket when he cast it aside, forced spoonfuls of thick, nourishing soup into his mouth.

  He was a big man, with strong arms and broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. And as she cared for him, she knew he would live. He had to live. He was her only hope of escape.

  Fallon stirred restlessly, hovering in a netherworld where memories of the past rose up to haunt him. Wandering through the mists of time, he saw his mother, forever beautiful, teaching him to read and write in the white man’s way. He saw his father, strong and tall and proud, patiently teaching him to read the signs of the deer and the elk, of the wolf and the bear, the coyote and the rabbit, to interpret the signs of the sun and the moon and the stars.

  Once again, he roamed the mountains and valleys with Delshay and Chandeisi, sharing their laughter as they raced their fleet ponies across the sun-bleached desert, or swam naked in a chill high-mountain stream.

  And once again he saw Nahdaste, her belly swollen with his child, her ready smile brighter than the sun at noonday. Nahdaste, with hair like black silk and dark eyes warm with love and desire. Once again he held her close, begging her not to die. And once again, he lost her.

  And then he was running, running through the mists of time, running from the wickiup where she had died in his arms. Running from the sympathetic faces of his friends. Running from her memory…

  He woke with a start, her name a cry on his lips. A cool hand reached through the darkness to wipe his fevered face and offer him a cool drink of water. Soft words encouraged him to rest, to sleep, to forget…

  Jenny sat back on her heels, wondering what demons haunted his dreams, what ghosts caused him to thrash about.

  She glanced up as Kayitah entered the lodge. The Apache chief had been in a foul mood since Alope had brought the white man into their lodge. Now, as he locked a set of ancient shackles around the prisoner’s ankles, he smiled for the first time in days.