The Quantro Story

by Chris Scott Wilson

  In the late afternoon was the turn of the males, but during the remainder of the day, anyone who wished to visit the pool was able to. Where the lip of the basin faced out from the mountain was a fissure in the rock that allowed the water to run off from the pool and cascade to the rocks below where the creek resumed its course.

  Here, fish abounded, lurking under rocks like sinister shadows. One would dart out to gulp a fly and then with a silvery flash of its tail would streak back into the shadow. The Apache who fished here were none. To the Apache, the flesh of both fish and dogs was repugnant.

  Quantro liked to fish. He had never had the time since he had become old enough to help the ranch hands with their work. And after those first hard days of riding, he had listened to the men talking in the bunkhouse round the stove and he had begun to be interested in the ways of the cards and the taste of liquor, and of course women. So the fish on the Bar-Q-Bar ranch had stayed in the creek to breed unmolested.

  He resolved to get his hand in again. Where better than here, where the fish were plentiful? Even if White-Wing would not eat his catch with him, then he was sure Pete would find a couple of fat mountain trout a welcome change.

  White-Wing, however, accompanied him on his fishing trips, at first mystified when he had cut a pole, but then content to sit and watch as he baited the hook he had fashioned from a small curved bone. Up at the cabin, Tom had taught him that too. He had told Quantro of the North Dakota Indians, the Sioux, who made their fish hooks from the ribs of field mice. White-Wing had found him thread to use for a line, and thus he was equipped.

  He would prop the Winchester against a pine tree and stretch out on the grass, the line laying on the surface of the rippling water. There was no contest with the fish. They were not used to the ways of man and did not avoid the bait he cast for them. In no time at all he would string together five or six plump mountain trout and tote them back to the camp, White-Wing following happily behind.

  ***

  Crawling-Snake’s eyes had not been closed to Quantro’s wanderings. While working on his pony’s harness or cutting arrows for his hunting bow, he watched the Americano time after time disappear into the trees accompanied by White-Wing. He seethed with rage. Oh, how he wanted her ! To watch her with the blonde blanco was like thorns tearing at the soft flesh of his heart. Each time, his anger smoldered until at last the fire inside him was so painful he knew he could only quench its flames by killing. So be it, he would kill the white man, and then White-Wing would be undeniably his. She would praise him for his courage at challenging the tall man who was so fast with his gun. When he, Crawling-Snake, lifted the blonde scalp, she would fall down on her knees and beg him to take her as his wife. Who else of the Apache would challenge the blonde man who showed such a talent, with his untamable horse and such prowess with his pistol and beautiful repeating rifle? There would be no squaw as proud as she to have such a fearless Indian warrior as her husband.

  Everyone would revere his valor.

  ***

  Crawling-Snake was tending to his pony when Quantro rode into the camp with White-Wing one afternoon. The white man dismounted and began to unsaddle the buckskin stallion. The Indian girl handed him the reins of her pony, then asked in Apache what he had a mind to do for the rest of the afternoon. Quantro replied in his strange combination of Spanish and Apache he would be going to the fishing hole to catch some supper. She laughed and danced away to fetch a bag for collecting berries.

  As Quantro turned loose the buckskin and the pony, then hefted his saddle on to his good shoulder, Crawling-Snake slipped away to collect his bow and his scalping knife.

  ***

  The sunshine streaked through the canopy of branches that the tall pines wove high above the ground. Its rays slashed through the aromatic air in bright shafts, dust dancing, before it splashed across the bed of green needles that liberally coated the rich earth. Quantro’s kabuns made no sound as the soft leather left a trail of shallow depressions along the path. As was his custom, he stalked rather than walked, the fishing pole hanging loosely from his left hand and the trusty Winchester canted nonchalantly over his right shoulder. Without effort, his ears grew attuned to the sounds of the forest and he was aware of the birds calling warnings to each other as they moved from branch to branch, away from the trail. He smiled as he walked, the odor of the pines pleasant in his nostrils.

  Behind him, White-Wing was playing her own games. She skipped from each of his footprints to the next, marveling how small her moccasin prints were compared to his. Hers tended to toe-in slightly, whereas his pointed straight ahead, a little splay-footed, but he was as silent as an Apache. Her shining hair swung about her slender shoulders, tangling somewhat in her beads, and the soft doeskin of her dress rubbed pleasantly on the sleek calves of her legs.

  White-Wing watched Quantro pause and cock his head, listening. She inspected the angle his head made with his neck, the long blonde hair brushing across his shoulders, a wisp curling unnoticed across his cheek. She took pleasure in the broad sweep of his shoulders, the muscles rippling beneath the faded check shirt. Her eyes twinkled with thoughts an Indian maiden of her age should not indulge in as she appraised his tight-jeaned thighs, strong and sure, marred only by the slight limp he said had been caused two years ago when his leg had been broken. He had never told her how, and she had been too timid to ask. If he wanted her to know, then one day he would tell her.

  She sensed his ease, and the grace of him as he moved through the trees. He had, she was sure, the same kind of affection and appreciation for the unravaged land as she herself possessed. No mines had been dug here, nor corn planted, no timber hewn to build those square houses the Americanos liked, with the sloping roofs of shingles that kept off the rain.

  And all the time she was aware of the strength within him, almost an invisible protection, a motivation to be alive and live. It was like a fire burning inside of him, but one whose flames were colored turquoise blue, shot with flashes of green, the way wood with minerals in it burns. Her brother-in-law had noticed it too. Once he had said to her alone that if Quantro had been an Indian they would have named him Strange-Fire.

  Crawling-Snake, too, was silent as he trod warily in the wake of Quantro and White-Wing. He had gathered his hunting bow and a quiver of arrows, then cleaned his scalping knife by plunging in into the soft earth. He had entered his wickiup to mix paint and apply it to his face. He drew a Vee on his forehead to signify he lived in the mountains, then red lines from his eyes to his ear lobes, and three short lines on his chin that read War. He then crept stealthily from the settlement and into the trees. It took only a glance to read the trail. White-Wing’s tiny kabun prints laid over the larger ones of the blanco. He moved from shadow to shadow, criss-crossing the trail, slowly nearing the man and the girl ahead of him.

  His face was grim, painted for war, and all the time the hate he carried inside of him for the white man increased. His hands were eager to close on the throat of the gringo, to throttle the very air from his lungs, the air Quantro had stolen from the Apache.

  They emerged from the belt of ancient pines at the base of Shining Water, and the sunlight struck Quantro’s face as he gazed out over the rippling water that shimmered like quicksilver. There was nobody there, only the silence broken by the chirping of the birds and the musical sound of the cascading water as it drained from the lip of the pool to fall onto the rocks below. Quantro turned to smile at White-Wing, then followed the path that wound around the perimeter of the water and through the break in the rocks and down the steep incline.

  Near the foot of the natural rock wall, the ground leveled off and they walked across the grass to the stream that White-Wing had named Eating Creek in deference to Quantro’s liking for fish. Along the far bank ran a stretch of bushes, and it was to these that White-Wing wandered to collect berries, while Quantro baited his hook and cast his line into the water.

  When he was satisfied with his cast, he allowed the hook to dri
ft, propping the fishing pole between two convenient rocks he had positioned on an earlier visit. He sat back and took out his tobacco sack, busying his fingers with the familiar routine.

  He liked this place, the peace and the wildness of it. The fishing hole was his favorite of the places within the immediate area of the camp. But he knew he was living there on borrowed time. Pete had told him of Red-Fox’s condition when they had brought him to the camp. Nothing had been mentioned about it since, but he was aware he could not stay there for ever. True, he brought in game for the cooking pots, but apart from that he was worthless to the community, unless, he thought with rancor, any of the braves had aspirations to be gun-fighters.

  He had to begin thinking about the future. He knew he must find a place to settle. He wanted to start another ranch and name it the Bar-Q-Bar, as his father’s had been named. He realized now that in building the ranch in Colorado, as well as feeding the Quantro family, his father had been investing in the land for his son’s future. Shag Quantro wanted now to return that favor and reinvest that trust for his own children, if and whenever they should be born. He would have to find the money too. There was some left from the bounties on Cole and Dale, but nowhere near enough to buy land and breeding stock. He did not want to have to hire out his gun to earn the money, for he considered his time of killing was over. He would just have to find honest, decent work and then save hard to eventually get whatever he wanted.

  He felt the need for a woman too, as though up to now his life had been incomplete. It did not matter what he had, or achieved if there was nobody to share it with. Also, he had watched the Indian children running and laughing round the camp and found himself touched by them. It had been a surprise. He had thought that part of him burned out by his experiences. As he pondered on the thought he looked up, over the water to where White-Wing was wandering among the bushes, her supple fingers plucking the berries speedily and dropping them into the bag.

  She was beautiful in a way few of the women he had met had been beautiful. She seemed to possess an inner tranquility, but, he reflected, that could well be a trait inherited from her people. She had a shapely body too, her doeskin dress filled out adequately in all the correct places. He reflected there was plenty there to keep a man happy. Her character was pleasant, she was eager to please, and she was a fair hand with the cooking chores.

  The only thing he disliked about her was she was sometimes overeager to please, always at his heels. Each time he paused she would be there, gazing rapturously up at him. He knew if he wanted to take her it would be all too easy. He did want to, but each time he contemplated the thought, all the complications involved stopped him.

  To achieve what he wished, namely the ranch, he would have to leave the Apache settlement and return north. Traveling with an Indian woman, he knew, could cause all sorts of trouble. Soldier and Civilian both. If he took her with him and then he found a job that entailed traveling he would have nowhere to leave her where he could be sure she would not be bothered by spiteful visitors. Especially if she had a child.

  So, to be with her would mean remaining here, and even then would Wild-Horse, her brother-in-law, allow her to marry a white man? If he took her now, as he wished, then later departed, she would find it difficult to find herself a husband among the Apache, for word of her liaison with him would travel from mouth to mouth and she would be an outcast. Probably they would endure her presence in the settlement, for she was, after all an Apache, but the chances were the rest of her people would always look down on her.

  It grieved him it should be so, for all his instincts cried out for him to take her, and he would be a liar if he denied the inclination had not occurred to him on many occasions when they had been alone together. The feeling was with him now as he surreptitiously watched her from under the brim of his Stetson. The thought was almost overwhelmingly consuming, to hold the slenderness of her to him and caress her toffee skin and roll with her on the rich green grass, the heady aroma of the pines rich in the warm air around them, and above them the appealing chatter of the birds.

  It had been a long time.

  Since that last time he had taken a woman, he had nearly been to the land of the dead. When had been the last time? Janey Morgan, she had been a woman, a real humdinger of one. The memory of her brought a warm feeling deep down inside, a glow that brought a wry smile to his lips.

  The memory faded, and he refocused his eyes to see White-Wing watching him from the other side of the stream. She was standing stock-still, her eyes locked to his. Even from where he sat, he could clearly make out their almond shape, dark as the night sky. It was almost as if she read his mind. She lay the berry bag on the ground and walked towards him. The woman in her belied the innocent face of the girl that she had.

  She stepped into the streaming, silvery water that licked ignored at her calves, lazily teasing the doeskin of her dress. As the current plucked, one moment the outline of her thigh would be revealed, and the next the line of her calves, then the full length of both her legs as the water pulled the doeskin taut between them.

  Quantro’s eyes strayed restlessly from her face to her legs, and then to the fullness of her bead-covered bosom.

  The look in her eyes told him all he needed to know. He was not going to be allowed to make the choice of staying or leaving.

  She was making it for him.

  Gracefully, she stepped up from the creek bed and stood before him. Her head dipped and her face was hidden by the curtain of her hair, thick and lustrous, then she looked up, her lips forming a half smile as her fingers reached deftly to the thongs on her shoulders.

  The smile, Quantro thought, bore a likeness to the smile of the hunter when he has the kill in his sights, or he knows the quarry has almost got its neck in the trap.

  The thongs parted, and the doeskin shift fell away to crumple on the ground around her ankles.

  His imagination had dreamed no lies. She was perfect. Every single inch, and as naked as the day she was born. She stood proud, strange he thought, in a girl so young, but then he supposed the young bucks had done enough staring for her to realize she was an estune, a full-grown woman. She was high-breasted, on the small side, but ample to hold any man’s attention. Even as he watched, her nipples hardened, coming erect, teased by the breeze. Her torso narrowed to a tiny waist that flared out into generous hips, the dark triangle of her womanhood evident at the junction of her creamy, copper thighs.

  Quantro realized he had stopped breathing. She had literally stolen his breath away. His lungs resumed their function and he rose to his feet.

  Standing there in front of him, now he towered over her, she looked tiny. A tiny, perfectly formed woman. He stepped forward, hands torn between reaching for her shoulders to pull her to him or unfastening his gun belt. His hands paused undecided, then he reached out to her.

  During the long second when his left leg began the movement that would bring him to her, a faint shadow crossed her eyes and he froze, his boot heel raised from the ground.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, the vision of a huge black buzzard, wingtips spread wide, and cruel hooked talons reaching as it swooped in for the kill flashed into his mind and he frowned. Already turning, his right hand dipped to the butt of his Colt.

  The shadow on White-Wing’s face turned to a silent, open mouthed scream of horror. She stepped sideways automatically, a hand instinctively covering the rosebuds of her naked breasts.

  As Quantro’s body eased itself into the familiar crouch he caught first sight of his assailant.

  Crawling-Snake.

  The Apache had launched himself into the air, arms spread wide in front of him, a scalping knife clenched in his fist. It was not the weapon or the movement that fixed itself in Quantro’s conscious, but Crawling-Snake’s face.

  His eyes were wild with bloodlust, features grotesque in his demoniac grimace of hatred. Warpaint was daubed on the brown cheeks, but the most riveting of his features was the mouth. There were flecks of
foam at the corners, bubbles encrusted on the bared teeth.

  Quantro’s swift turn had thrown Crawling-Snake’s timing. Instead of landing on the white man’s back, he found himself flying over his target, now crouched below him. Quantro had the Colt clear of leather and was bringing it up to bear, but the Apache was directly above him now. Before he could thumb the hammer, the pistol was kicked from his hand by a flying foot.

  Crawling-Snake was in no better a position. He tumbled to the ground in a flurry of arms and legs, landing on top of White-Wing’s discarded dress, the spot where she had stood a second ago. But he had no eyes now for the charms she had displayed as he crouched in the trees.

  He rolled almost a full somersault with the momentum of his flight and came back up on his knees, knife in hand. The Colt was too far away to be reached quickly. Quantro grabbed for his own hunting knife, tucked into the top of his knee-high moccasins. As he pulled the blade free he noted that the Apache was indeed garbed for war. He had stripped to breechclout and leggings, and his hair was braided to keep his vision clear.

  Quantro leapt after him.

  Crawling-Snake blocked the lunge then caught Quantro’s knife hand. His own scalping knife swung like a scythe at Quantro’s belly. The white man brought up his knee fast. The blade cut into the leather of the moccasins, slicing through to the flesh and drawing blood. The adrenaline in Quantro’s bloodstream ignored the stabbing pain of the wound and he drove his left arm snaking to grasp the Apache’s throat.