Apache Runaway

by Madeline Baker

  “I have never seen a white man in chains,” Kayitah remarked. “Only Indians.” His grin widened. “This is better.”

  The lodge was cold and empty when Fallon woke the following morning. The village was quiet, and only the soft patter of the rain and the whisper of the wind broke the stillness.

  He sighed, stretching, and there was an ominous rattle beneath the buffalo robes. He swore softly as he lifted the blanket, scowled at the rusty iron shackles fastened around his ankles.

  Scowling blackly, he unleashed a string of obscenities. The heavy chains would not hinder him as he worked for the chief’s wife, but they would sure as hell put a crimp in any attempt he made to escape, and Kayitah knew it. The chief knew he’d try to escape first chance he got, but he wouldn’t get far dragging leg irons. Their infernal clanking would arouse every dog in the camp.

  In a burst of anger, Fallon threw off the blanket, noting that someone had thoughtfully provided him with an elkskin clout to cover his nakedness. There was also a heavy buckskin shirt, and a pair of knee-high moccasins.

  Rising, he pulled on the clout and moccasins and left the lodge.

  Jenny was returning from the river when she saw the white man step outside. Dressed in a clout and moccasins, he looked very much like an Indian himself except for his dark-blue eyes and the heavy beard that covered his jaw.

  Fallon’s gaze met Jenny’s as she drew near the lodge, and he knew somehow that she was the woman who had cut the bullet from his leg. It made sense now. She wanted to escape and she’d saved his life, then bribed him with the promise of water. She shook her head, silently begging him not to speak to her, not to mention that she had disobeyed Kayitah.

  Fallon nodded imperceptibly as he read the fear in her eyes.

  Jenny emptied the waterskin she had filled at the river into the kettle set on a tripod outside the wickiup, then added chunks of venison and wild vegetables, as well as a handful of herbs for seasoning.

  Stirring the soup, she kept one eye on the white man, who was sitting in the sun, his long legs stretched out before him, his eyes closed.

  Jenny smiled faintly. It was a beautiful day. The clouds had fled and the sky was wonderfully blue and clear. The whole valley sparkled, as bright and green as it must have been on the first day of creation, and Jenny felt her heart soar with hope. The white man was alive and well. Soon he would be strong again; soon he would try to escape, and she would go with him.

  It was early afternoon when the war party returned to the village. It took but one look to know that the gods had blessed the Apache with victory. But it had not come cheap. Eleven Indian ponies carried lifeless burdens.

  Jenny listened as Niyokahe intoned the names of the dead for the last time, shivering as the keening wail of bereaved wives and mothers floated down the valley.

  Trying to block the sound of grief from her mind, Jenny let her gaze drift down the line of warriors. The Indians had attacked an Army supply train, looting it for blankets, rifles, ammunition, coffee, sugar and a keg of whiskey. They had stolen the Army mules too. Jenny shook her head sadly when she saw the prisoner who stumbled in the wake of the mules. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His uniform was in shreds.

  When the war party reached the center of the village, two warriors took hold of the prisoner and tied him to the same deadfall where they had dragged Fallon. One of the warriors kicked the prisoner’s legs out from under him while the other deftly secured his arms behind his back. With a final tug on the man’s bonds, the two warriors hurried toward their lodges where their wives would be waiting with clean clothing and a hot meal.

  Jenny stood beside Kayitah as he listened to Niyokahe’s report, trying not to let her revulsion show as Niyokahe bragged of how the Apache had wiped out the Army supply train, and then ridden on to attack the fort.

  “The whites are stupid,” Niyokahe said contemptuously. “They sent too many soldiers to guard the supply train. Taking the fort was easy. We made the soldier chief watch while we killed his men. He cried like a weakling child.”

  Jenny turned away, feeling sick. How many men, red and white, would have to die before the red man and the white man learned to live together in peace and harmony? Would they ever learn? The soldiers did not think of the Indians as human and killed them without compunction, often slaughtering whole villages in their eagerness to exterminate the red menace. Of course, the Indians fought back, but more often than not they lost their battles, unable to match the Army’s superior firepower or seemingly endless supply of fighting men.

  Jenny sighed as she stirred the soup simmering in the big kettle. She thought of the miles and miles of empty land and wondered why there wasn’t enough room for all men to live in peace. And once again she offered her silent prayer, asking God to help her escape from Kayitah and the Indians.

  With the coming of night, the Indians began to gather in the center of the village. Jenny frowned irritably as she helped the other women serve the warriors. The Apache victory was being celebrated in the usual way, with drinking and feasting and dancing, and the air was heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and the tantalizing aroma of that most favored Apache delicacy, roast mule meat.

  A blazing fire kept the dark at bay, and Jenny could see Niyokahe outlined against the flames, posturing wildly as he recounted the highlights of the attack on the white man’s fort, boasting of coup counted and enemies slain in battle. He was a bully and a braggart, and Jenny heartily disliked him. More than once, she had thanked God that she had not been captured by Niyokahe. His naked torso glistened in the firelight and his face was distorted with hatred as he spoke of the whites, and of past treacheries the soldiers had committed against the People. The faces of the other warriors reflected the same intense hatred as Niyokahe’s, and Jenny thought, regretfully, that there would never be peace as long as such hatred existed.

  She was offering Kayitah a slice of mule meat when she happened to see the white man standing alone on the edge of the crowd, one arm draped over the makeshift crutch he had fashioned from a sturdy cottonwood branch. He looked up just then and their eyes met and held.

  A curious warmth spread through Jenny as their gazes met, and she quickly glanced away lest he think she was flirting with him.

  When she looked up again, he was gone.

  Jenny left the celebration when they dragged the luckless prisoner into the camp circle. She did not want to see another man tortured and killed. She had seen enough death to last her a lifetime.

  Leaving the village, she walked into the trees until the sounds of the celebration were far behind. She had been warned several times not to venture away from the village alone. There was danger in the dark for a woman on her own. Even the men rarely wandered far from the camp at night.

  But she needed to be alone.

  The woods were dark and quiet. The intertwining branches blocked the light of the moon, and she walked carefully, feeling her way through the darkness.

  She knew suddenly that she was no longer alone. She froze in mid-step, her eyes probing the night, her ears straining for some sound, her heart pounding wildly. She heard a rustle in the underbrush behind her and uttered a low exclamation of terror as a dark shape materialized out of the shadows.

  Fallon chuckled softly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it was dangerous to wander off alone at night?” he drawled.

  Jenny felt her knees go weak with relief. It was the white man. “What are you doing out here?”

  Fallon shrugged. “Probably the same thing you are.”

  “I wanted to be alone.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  A faint cry, high and shrill and laced with pain, shattered the stillness of the night. Jenny shivered, her heart constricting in sympathy for the unfortunate soldier whose only escape from pain was a quick death.

  “It’ll be over soon,” Fallon said quietly.

  “That’s the real reason I came out here,” Jenny confessed. “To get away from that.”
/>   “I know.”

  She was glad suddenly that he was there beside her. His presence was comforting, and she wished she could spend some time with him, get to know him. It would be nice to speak her own language, learn what was going on in the world. But even now she was glancing into the shadows, fearful of being caught alone in the dark with a man. If Kayitah should find her…she shuddered, putting the thought from her mind.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said quickly.

  “Wait.” He laid a restraining hand on her arm. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Jenny. Jenny Braedon.”

  “Ryder Fallon. I never thanked you for saving my life.”

  “Just get me out of here,” Jenny murmured. “That’s all the thanks I need.” And turning on her heel, she ran back toward the village.

  As his strength returned, Fallon began strolling through the village, venturing a little farther each day, carefully noting the position of the sentries on the high canyon walls, their number, the hours when the guard was changed, all with one thing in mind—escape.

  Fallon did not take kindly to being Alope’s slave. She had a tongue sharper than a two-edged sword and a temper to match, and she took great delight in ordering him to do everything from finding her moccasins to brushing her hair. He was expected to draw water, gather wood, hunt for roots and berries, weed their garden.

  The Apache children fell down laughing the first time they saw Fallon gathering wood. A warrior doing women’s work? It was unthinkable! Unheard of!

  “Stupid pinda-lick-o-ye!” they cried. “Stupid white-eyes.”

  The warriors turned away in disgust. Strangely, the maidens no longer mocked him. Some cast shy glances in his direction when they encountered him drawing water from the river or spading Alope’s meager garden. Others admired him openly, staring unabashedly at his broad shoulders and long legs, for he was considerably taller and broader than most of the Apache men. A few of the young women flirted with him brazenly, not caring that he was a slave, seeing only that he was a man, and a handsome one at that.

  Fallon returned their smiles, but he made no attempt to encourage them. His longing for freedom far surpassed every other desire, even his need for a woman. Captivity was like a worm in his belly, gnawing at his pride, souring his disposition. He obeyed Alope without complaint, content to bide his time until he found a way to escape.

  Still, slavery rankled deep in his soul, made worse by the shackles he was forced to wear. The only bright spot was Jenny Braedon. He’d had no chance to be alone with her since that night in the woods, but it was comforting, somehow, to have her there. She was a beautiful woman. Her eyes were the most incredible shade of emerald green, fringed by thick dark-blonde lashes. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, tanned to perfection. Her hair was long and thick and gold, a halo fit for an angel. Golden Dove, Kayitah called her, and the name suited her perfectly.

  He was thinking of her a week later as he sat on the riverbank staring glumly at the swift-moving current. Freed of the restricting irons that hampered his every step, and with Jenny Braedon to share his lodge, life with the Apache would have been tolerable, even pleasant. He lived with the Indians before, years ago…

  He had been eighteen the day he had found Delshay lying half dead at the base of a tree. It was hard to believe that fifteen years had gone by since then, Fallon mused. It seemed like only yesterday. He had taken the wounded Apache back to his village, and when the boy recovered, the two had become blood brothers and Fallon had been adopted into the tribe and given a new name, Kladetahe. He had lingered at the Apache camp for several weeks, somehow reluctant to leave, and after a while it was assumed he would remain with the Apache indefinitely.

  It was during that first cold winter that Fallon discovered Nahdaste. She was tall for an Apache, with straight black hair that reached to her waist and impish black eyes. Fallon had loved her from the moment they met, loved her with every fiber of his being.

  There was a bittersweet pain in his heart as he thought of her now. But for the cruel hand of fate, he would have remained with the Apache for the rest of his life, content to spend all his days among Nahdaste’s people.

  But it was not to be. Less than a year after their marriage, Nahdaste had died in his arms. He had buried her high in the mountains beneath a sheltering pine, together with their tiny stillborn daughter, and then, overcome with grief, he had fled the rancheria in the dead of night. In retrospect, he supposed he had been running ever since…

  Fallon grinned ruefully as he ran a hand over his jaw. Even his beard was a form of running away, he mused, a way of hiding from himself.

  “You’ll never find a way to escape if you just sit there brooding like an old man,” a familiar voice declared.

  Fallon glanced over his shoulder, surprised she had sought him out. They had carefully avoided each other in the past week, both aware that Kayitah was very jealous of his blonde wife.

  “Do you think this is wise?” Fallon asked as Jenny sat down beside him. “People might think we’re meeting on the sly.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Jenny retorted. But he was right. It was dangerous for them to be seen alone together, especially so far from the village. But she needed to get away, needed someone to talk to, if only for a minute.

  She plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers, conscious of the man beside her. He was a handsome man, in a rugged sort of way, and she wondered what he would look like without the beard. He had a strong, arresting face, and a virile body corded with muscle… She felt her cheeks grow hot as she realized what she was thinking.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” Fallon said.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I just want to go home.”

  “Yeah,” Fallon muttered and then, hoping to make her smile, he doffed an imaginary hat and held it over his heart. “Ryder Fallon at your service, ma’am,” he drawled. “Gambler, drifter, ex-con…” His dark-blue eyes raked her boldly from head to heel. “Rescuer of fair maidens in distress.”

  Jenny smiled in spite of herself. “Have you any idea how to get out of here?” she asked hopefully.

  “There’s only one way into this place,” Fallon answered with a shrug. “And one way out, and that’s through the passage at the mouth of the canyon. Unless you want to try scaling these cliffs.”

  Jenny looked up at the forbidding purple walls that hemmed them in and shuddered. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. The only other possible way out is through Diablo Canyon Pass, but I don’t recommend that. Anyway, getting out is only part of the problem. First I’ve got to get shed of these irons so I can fork a horse. And then we’ll need a couple of good mounts and supplies, not to mention a rifle.” He shook his head ruefully. “Hell, maybe we’d better just forget it.”

  “No!” Jenny cried vehemently. “There has to be a way. I’ll go mad if I don’t get out of here soon.” Her shoulders slumped as she thought of how miserable she’d been in the last four years, sharing Kayitah’s lodge with a woman who despised and demeaned her, being forced to obey, to submit. She couldn’t take it anymore. She just couldn’t. There had to be a way out. She didn’t care if she had to walk barefoot through Diablo Canyon, just as long as she could go home.

  She hadn’t meant to cry, but once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop.

  “Hey,” Fallon admonished gently. “Don’t cry.”

  “Please get me out of here,” Jenny sobbed. “I’d rather die in the desert than spend another night in this place. Please help me.”

  He could not ignore the despair he read in her eyes, the awful discouragement in her voice. Wanting to comfort her, he reached out to take her in his arms.

  Jenny jerked away from him, her expression bordering on panic. Kayitah was the only man other than Hank who had ever touched her, and Kayitah had not always been gentle.

  “I guess you’ve had a bad time,” Fallon remarked quietly.

  Jenny nodded warily.
/>
  “I won’t hurt you,” Fallon said, his voice softly reassuring. “I just thought it might help if you had a shoulder to cry on.”

  His voice was deep and low, strangely soothing. It was silly to be afraid of him, she thought. She would have to trust him if he was to help her escape.

  Without quite knowing how it happened, she found herself in his arms, her face buried in the hollow of his shoulder. His touch did not repulse her as Kayitah’s did, or leave her feeling empty, as Hank’s did. Instead, she was filled with a sense of well-being, a sense of belonging. It was so unexpected, so disconcerting, she began to weep again, unleashing all the tears and frustration she had been holding back for so long.

  Ryder Fallon frowned unhappily. He’d always been a sucker for a woman’s tears.

  “Don’t cry,” he murmured, stroking the golden head pillowed on his shoulder. “I’ll think of something.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the days that followed, the tension in Kayitah’s lodge grew stronger and more palpable. Alope had hoped that the white man’s presence would make her husband jealous enough so that she could win him back to her bed, but it hadn’t happened. Kayitah’s gaze continued to alight with favor on the white woman, and Alope’s anger grew deeper and more bitter. She couldn’t strike her husband. She didn’t dare harm the white woman. But the white man was hers to do with as she pleased. She could beat him, she could kill him, and no one would care.

  Now that his strength was fully returned, Alope had no qualms about venting her growing frustration on the white man. When he failed to obey one of her orders fast enough to suit her, she ordered him outside and whipped him unmercifully.

  Fallon grimaced as a handful of children gathered around, their black eyes wide as they watched Alope whip her slave. Such punishment was unheard of for an Apache child. Children were prized by the People, raised with love and affection and a lack of control that white parents would have found appalling.