Apache Runaway

by Madeline Baker

  He shook his head, remembering the implacable expression on Kayitah’s face as he had sighted down the shaft of his arrow—an arrow pointed at Jenny.

  Give me my son, Kayitah had demanded softly, or the woman dies now, and then you will die, slowly, cursing the mother who gave you life.

  And if I give you the child?

  You and the woman are free to go. But I will peel the skin from your body an inch at a time if you ever return to the rancheria.

  Ryder shivered. It had not been an idle threat, but a promise. Perhaps he could have done things differently. He could have offered to return Jenny and the child in exchange for his freedom, but letting Jenny go had never crossed his mind.

  He swore softly as he urged his horse across a shallow stream and up a sandy bank. He’d given Jenny’s son to Kayitah, and now, by damn, he meant to get the boy back.

  He put aside the thought of the fate that might be his if he failed to get the boy away from the Apache camp and thought instead of Jenny.

  His Jenny, with hair like silk and a smile like sunshine. Jenny, who had melted the ice from his heart and filled it with love and understanding. Jenny, who loved him unconditionally, not caring that he was a half-breed, that he’d been a gunfighter. Jenny…

  He closed his eyes and her image danced before him, bright as a summer day.

  Doubts crowded his mind. What would she do if he didn’t make it back? She’d never know what had happened to him but would spend the rest of her life thinking that he’d tired of her, after all, that he’d ridden out of her life because he’d been too big a coward to say goodbye.

  Perhaps he should have told her where he was going, he mused, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it would have been a mistake. She would have insisted on coming along, and he had enough to worry about without having to look after her too. And if she’d been with him, and he failed, she would have been Kayitah’s prisoner again…perhaps she wouldn’t have minded that so much though, he thought. At least she’d be with her son again.

  Damn!

  Opening his eyes, he shook her image from his mind. He’d made his choice, and it was too late to turn back now, too late to worry about what he might have done, what he should have done. If he succeeded, the light would shine in Jenny’s eyes once again.

  If he failed…

  His mouth went dry.

  If he failed, he wouldn’t have to worry about making any more decisions.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jenny felt an increasing sense of urgency as they rode across the trackless desert toward the Apache camp. Ryder was out there, alone. She remembered all too clearly the day Ryder had given her son to Kayitah, and Kayitah’s warning.

  She berated herself again and again as the miles passed. Why had she let Ryder see her unhappiness? Why hadn’t she tried harder to accept the fact that Cosito was gone? Why hadn’t she tried harder to make Ryder happy, to concentrate on the good life she had instead of lamenting the loss of her son? She knew Kayitah would take good care of the boy, that he would be loved. The Apache doted on their children, never striking them, rarely speaking any but the kindest words. Children were a gift from Usen, meant to be cherished, protected.

  Now, because of her, Ryder might be killed.

  Blood. And death.

  Like mist rising from the prairie, Nell Howard’s words floated through Jenny’s mind.

  “How much longer, William?” she asked anxiously.

  “Another day. The Apache make their camp in the next valley at this time of the year.”

  So close, Jenny thought. All this time, Cosito had been nearby.

  As they bedded down for the night, she wondered if her son would remember her. She hadn’t seen him for almost six months, she thought sadly. Not a long time, by any means, unless you were a baby less than a year old.

  But as much as she yearned for her son, her last thoughts before sleep were for Ryder. Please, God, keep him safe for me…

  Under cover of darkness, Fallon padded silently toward the entrance of the village, his moccasined feet making no sound as he crept slowly across the soft, damp ground.

  Heart pounding in his ears, he made his way toward the sentry he knew was guarding the entrance of the rancheria. Sweat beaded across his brow as he neared the warrior. One outcry, and it would all be over. But not quickly. He would find no reprieve this time, no mercy. Kayitah would skin him alive.

  Damn. Crouched in the shadow of the ravine, he held his breath, waiting for just the right moment.

  Time seemed to stand still. He heard the soughing of the wind as it sighed down the valley, the cautious chirp of a cricket. The muffled sound of footsteps coming his way.

  Eyes narrowed, Fallon waited for the sentry to come within reach, waited until instinct took over. He sprang forward, one arm wrapping around the warrior’s throat, shutting off the man’s startled cry. Using his gun butt, he rendered the warrior unconscious, quickly bound his hands and feet.

  Releasing his pent-up breath, he walked toward the village, his head high and his shoulders back, as if he belonged there.

  A soft word, spoken in guttural Apache, quieted the dogs. The horses picketed in front of the lodges stirred at his passing, their nostrils quivering as they sniffed his scent.

  His heart was pounding loudly in his ears as he made his way toward Kayitah’s lodge. Stealthily, he lifted the lodge flap and slipped inside. Holding his breath, he listened to Kayitah’s soft snoring.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Cosito sleeping on a small pallet beside Alope.

  Two long strides carried him to the child’s side. Gently, he placed his hand over the boy’s mouth and picked him up, but the boy didn’t awaken.

  Fallon’s mouth was desert dry as he turned and made his way out of the lodge. Slipping behind Kayitah’s loge, he blended into the shadows.

  He was almost to the entrance when the moon broke through the clouds. Fallon swore softly as he slid a wary glance at the softly rolling hills that surrounded the valley. There were a couple of sentries up there somewhere, and he prayed that anyone who saw him would think he was on his way to relieve the warrior at the entrance to the rancheria.

  Only a few yards to go, he thought, fighting the urge to run. Only a few more yards.

  He blew out a deep breath of relief as he reached the cover of the narrow ravine, praying that his luck would hold just a few minutes longer.

  The sentry was where he had left him. Shifting the boy to his shoulder, Fallon swung into the saddle and clucked softly to the horse.

  So far so good, he thought, but he knew he wouldn’t breathe easy until he’d left the rancheria far behind, until he’d placed Jenny’s son in her arms.

  Jenny rubbed her eyes, unable to believe what she was seeing. Could it be? Could it really be Fallon riding toward her? And Cosito…

  She heard William Howard mutter, “I’ll be damned” as she drummed her heels into her horse’s flanks.

  “Ryder!” She cried his name as she drew rein beside him. “Cosito! Oh thank God!”

  Ryder felt as if his heart might burst as he handed the boy to Jenny, saw the tears of joy sparkle in her eyes as she cradled her son to her breast.

  “Cosito,” she exclaimed. “How you’ve grown! Do you remember me?”

  The boy gazed up at her, his eyes wide and black, his expression pensive. When he smiled, tears cascaded down Jenny’s cheeks.

  “He does remember me. Oh Ryder, how can I ever thank you?”

  “You just did, Jenny girl,” he murmured, and knew it had been worth the risk to put that glow back in Jenny’s eyes.

  “I hate to break this up,” William Howard said, “but I think we’d best be headin’ for home.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Fallon said. “Let’s go.”

  They all heard it at the same time, the low thunder of approaching hoofbeats.

  “Kayitah,” Ryder muttered. “Damn.”

  “Ryder…”

/>   Jenny stared at him, her eyes afraid, her arms tightening instinctively around her son.

  “William, take Jenny and ride like hell. I’ll try and hold ’em off.”

  “You sure?” Howard asked.

  “I’m sure. Go. There’s no time to argue.”

  “Ryder, no!”

  “Get her out of here, now!”

  With a nod, William Howard grabbed the reins of Jenny’s horse and lit out for the cover of a stand of timber a few yards away.

  Ryder watched them out of sight; then, drawing his rifle, he turned to face the oncoming horsemen.

  There were a dozen of them, armed and painted for war, and Kayitah rode in the lead.

  With the Cheyenne war cry on his lips, Fallon sank his heels into the buckskin’s flanks and the horse bolted, lining out in a dead run, leading the Indians away from Jenny.

  He bent low over the buckskin’s neck, urging the horse to greater speed, knowing that every mile he drew the Apache away gave Jenny and Howard that much more of a chance to get away.

  The war cries of the Apache reached out to him, winding around him like an invisible web, making the short hairs rise along the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine.

  You will die, slowly, cursing the mother who gave you life… I will peel the skin from your body an inch at a time…

  Kayitah’s words echoed like a death knell in the back of Fallon’s mind.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. Kayitah, mounted on a big piebald stallion, was rapidly closing in on him.

  Fallon swore under his breath as an arrow hissed past his ear. Damn! He heard the rolling report of a gunshot, felt the buckskin jerk beneath him, and then the horse was going down.

  Ryder rolled clear of the buckskin and scrambled to his feet, but before he could turn and fire, he felt the hot sting of lead slam into his side, knocking him off his feet. And then Kayitah was there, glaring down at him over the barrel of a Winchester.

  Fallon inhaled deeply, let it out in a long slow sigh of resignation and dropped his rifle.

  Moments later, he was surrounded by a dozen Apaches.

  “My son,” Kayitah said. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This is not a time for lies, white man, but a time for truth.”

  Ryder pressed his hand over the bleeding wound in his side and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know where he is.”

  With effortless grace, Kayitah slid from the hack of his horse.

  “I ask you one last time, Kladetahe. Where is my son?”

  “And I tell you one last time. I don’t know.”

  Hatred burned bright in the Apache chief’s eyes as he smashed the butt of his rifle into Fallon’s wounded side.

  A hoarse cry of agony erupted from Ryder’s throat as he sank to his knees, choking back the bitter bile that rose in his throat. Immersed in a red haze of pain, he was hardly aware of being spread-eagled on the ground, his hands and feet secured to war lances sunk deep in the earth.

  Voices hummed around him. He felt the prick of a knife as someone cut away his clothing. And then a sharp stinging pain as Kayitah’s blade lilted a small square of skin from his chest.

  I will peel the skin from your body an inch at a time…

  He began to shiver spasmodically as pain and loss of blood and a horrible creeping fear settled over him.

  “Where is my son, white man?”

  Fallon shook his head. He stared at Kayitah for a long moment, and then he looked past the chief, staring into the distance, trying to lose himself within himself, to close his mind to the pain, to the fear that threatened to strip him of his pride, his manhood.

  Every muscle in his body grew taut as Kayitah’s blade moved over his chest a second time. He had once seen what was left of a man who had been skinned alive. It had not been a pretty sight.

  Fallon choked back the bile that rose in his throat as he imagined Kayitah stripping away every inch of flesh, then leaving him there, prey to the wolves and the vultures, the ants…

  Trembling convulsively, he focused his thoughts on Jenny, on the look of exquisite joy in her eyes as she held her son to her breast.

  He closed his eyes, remembering the lazy summer nights when he’d held her in his arms, feeling the warm silk of her hair against his chest, the eager touch of her hands moving over him, the sound of her voice…

  Her voice…

  He fought his way through the dark mist that hovered around him, drawn from the brink of unconsciousness by the sound of her voice.

  It took him a moment to understand her words.

  “Take the child,” Jenny said, her voice thick with tears. “Take me. But please, please, spare his life.”

  With an effort, Ryder focused his gaze on her lace. “Jenny, no…”

  “I will have it all,” Kayitah said, his voice harsh. “And the traitor’s life, as well.”

  “No, please.” Tears streaming down her face, Jenny took Kayitah’s hand in hers. “Please don’t hurt him anymore. I’ll do whatever you ask. Please, just let him go. He only took Cosito because of me, because he knew how I yearned for my son. Please, Kayitah, you must know how I feel. Have pity. For once in your life, have pity and let Kladetahe go!”

  “He must love you very much,” the chief mused.

  “Yes.”

  “And you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to give up your son forever?”

  Jenny gazed into her son’s face. Could she give him up forever? Never see him again? She stroked Cosito’s cheek as she glanced down at Ryder. He was watching her, his deep-blue eyes filled with understanding, and she knew that, even if she chose to let him die, he would understand and forgive.

  “Yes, even if I have to give him up forever,” she said in answer to Kayitah’s question. And giving her son a kiss on the forehead, she handed Cosito to his father.

  Cosito snuggled comfortably, familiarly, in his father’s arms, his inquisitive fingers reaching up to play in his father’s long hair, a look of contentment on his face. It was easy to see that Kayitah and the boy were close.

  As soon as Cosito had seen Kayitah ride up, he had cried for his father, his arms reaching out to him, and she had known at that moment that her son belonged with his father, that as much as she loved the boy, he would be happier living with his father’s people.

  Is it hard, being a half-breed? That was the question she had asked Ryder on the day of Cosito’s birth. He hadn’t wanted to answer her. It’s bad, isn’t it? she’d said, wanting to know, and when he’d finally said, It’s hard, his curt response had spoken volumes.

  “And would you stay with me, of your own free will, if I asked it of you?” Kayitah asked, his dark eyes probing hers.

  Kayitah’s voice drew her back to the present. “Yes, if you’ll just let Kladetahe go.”

  Kayitah grunted softly. “What is to keep me from killing him and taking both you and my son back to the rancheria?”

  “Nothing,” Jenny admitted, fighting down the panic rising in her breast. “Nothing but your honor.”

  A slow smile tugged at the corners of Kayitah’s mouth. “Honor,” he mused. “Whose honor? Apache honor, or the white man’s honor?”

  “There should be no difference.”

  “But there is. The word of the white man cannot be trusted. He makes his mark upon treaty papers and breaks his word before the ink is dry. He steals our land. He kills our women and children.”

  Kayitah stared down at Kladetahe. The half-breed was breathing shallowly, obviously in pain, yet he seemed oblivious to everything but the woman.

  Jealousy edged its way into Kayitah’s heart. “The word of the white man cannot be trusted,” he said again, “but my word is my life, and I swore to peel the skin from Kladetahe’s body if he ever returned to the rancheria.”

  “But this is not the rancheria,” Jenny said.

  Kayitah laughed softly. Even if he killed Kladetahe, even if he took Jen
ny back to the rancheria, she would never belong to him the way she belonged to his rival.

  “Well met, Golden Dove. Kladetahe is yours. If he is wise, he will not let his shadow fall near mine again.”

  “Thank you,” Jenny whispered fervently.

  She blinked back her tears as four of the warriors cut Fallon’s hands and feet free. Jerking their lances out of the dirt, they vaulted onto the backs of their horses and rode away.

  Silent tears tracked Jenny’s cheeks as she watched Kayitah place Cosito on the back of his horse, then swing up behind the boy, one arm circling Cosito’s waist.

  “Goodbye, Cosito,” she whispered.

  As if he’d heard and understood, Cosito scrambled to his feet and waved at her from over his father’s shoulder. “Jenny.”

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, she knelt beside Ryder, her hands moving over him. There were four bloody patches on his chest, but they seemed minor compared to the bullet wound in his side. She breathed a silent prayer as she examined the wound, grateful the bullet had passed cleanly through his side.

  Tearing the bottom ruffle from her petticoat, she ripped it into three pieces. Moving quickly, she folded two strips into thick pads, which she placed over the wounds, front and back. Then, using the remaining length of cloth, she wrapped it tightly around Ryder’s midsection to hold the bandages in place.

  A tight smile tugged at the corners of Fallon’s mouth. “Seems like…you did this…once before.”

  “Don’t talk, Ryder. Just rest. You’ll be all right.”

  With a low groan, he reached for her hand. “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice was strong, determined, but he saw the lingering hurt in her eyes.

  Jenny studied the raw wounds on Ryder’s chest. There wasn’t much blood, and she was wondering whether to try to bandage them or leave them exposed to the air when Ryder caught her hand in his.