The Golden Princess

by J. R. Roberts

  “Friends of yours?” Angus asked Horn as he put down the two beers.

  Yup, there was that burr.

  “This here’s Clint Adams, Angus,” Horn said. “The general called him in to solve all our problems for us.”

  “That a fact?” Angus asked. “Maybe he can work on gettin’ business to be better.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” Clint said, picking up his beer. “You know where I can get a good steak?”

  “A good one?” Angus asked. “No. You can get one here, though.”

  Clint looked at Horn, who nodded.

  “Okay, you sold me,” Clint said. The beer was cold, so maybe the steak would be good as well.

  “I’ll get me girl to cook it up fer ye,” the bartender said.

  “His girl?” Clint asked as the big Scottish bartender walked away.

  “His daughter,” Horn said, “and don’t get any ideas. He dotes on her.”

  “Good-looking?”

  “Best-looking gal on the post,” Horn said. “But like I said, don’t get any ideas. I’ve seen those big hands of Angus’s do plenty of damage.”

  “Right now I’m just thinking about a steak,” Clint said.

  “I’ll get a table.”

  Clint looked around. “I don’t see any empty ones.”

  “Just wait here.”

  Horn walked over to a back table where three men were sitting, talking and drinking. He spoke to them briefly and inclined his head once toward the bar. When he was finished, the three men stood up and left. Horn waved Clint over to the table.

  “What’d you say to them?” Clint asked, arriving with Horn’s beer in one hand and his own in the other.

  Horn had already seated himself.

  “They just decided to go and drink at Number Three.”

  Clint sat down and pushed Horn’s beer over to him.

  “You got two saloons in town, called Number Three and Number Four?”

  “Don’t ask,” Horn said.

  They had a second beer each while waiting for Clint’s steak.

  “So what did you tell Crook?” Horn asked.

  “I told him I’d think about it.”

  “He does want you to go out looking for Geronimo, right?” Horn asked, making sure they were talking about the same thing.

  “Geronimo, Nachite, whoever. You’d be going with me, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “If I decide to go.”

  “Who else?”

  “I asked for Pershing and his boys.”

  “The buffalo soldiers?”

  “Why not?” Clint asked. “Riding out there with a bunch of white soldiers would be like waving a red flag at a bull.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Pershing any good?”

  “He’s good,” Horn said. “Everybody says he’s gonna go far.”

  “And his men?”

  Horn shrugged. “I got nothing against blacks,” he said. “They seem okay.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “No problem from me,” Horn said. “I can’t say the same for Crawford and Davis.”

  “The two captains?”

  Horn nodded. “They can feel Pershing breathin’ down their necks,” the scout said.

  “So it’s like that?” Clint asked. “Competitive?”

  “When is it any different?” Horn asked. “Both of those men are gonna argue to go with you.”

  “They any good?”

  “You’re better off with Pershing,” Horn said. “Plus I like your idea about black faces instead of white. So the only whites would be you, me, and Pershing.”

  “Right.”

  “If you decide to go.”

  “Right again.”

  “Here comes your steak.”

  Angus put the plate down in front of him. It looked bloody, so much so that it was coloring the potatoes red.

  “Anythin’ for you, Tom?”

  “Bring me some of them hard-boiled eggs and a couple of more beers,” Horn said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  “So tell me,” Horn said to Clint, “what’s gonna figure into your final decision?”

  “You are.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one who knows the Apaches,” Clint said, “and you know the situation here. What are my chances of doing this and coming out alive?”

  “Your chances of doing the job are probably pretty good, if you can get to Geronimo.”

  “And coming out of it alive?”

  “Well . . . fifty-fifty, maybe, if you can get to Geronimo.”

  “So my life—”

  “And mine, probably.”

  “And yours, depends on me getting to Geronimo himself?”

  “That’s my assessment of the situation,” Horn said.

  “That’s just great.”

  FOUR

  The steak was palatable, even though Clint had to ask for a sharper knife to cut it with. After he finished eating, he and Horn gave up the table and went back to the bar. There were more and more blue uniforms filling the place, and Clint wondered if it was the same at Number Three, or if that was where the nonmilitary customers drank.

  “You’ll see a few uniforms over there,” Horn said in response to the question, “but this is pretty much where the soldiers drink.”

  “And the officers?”

  “Some here, some on post.”

  “So how much do you know about Geronimo, Tom?” Clint asked.

  “About as much as anybody, I guess.”

  “Ever met him?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “What about the others? Nachite?”

  “No.”

  “Many Words?”

  “I have crossed paths with Many Words,” Horn said. “He’s young, ambitious, came along at the wrong time.”

  “How so?”

  “Twenty years ago he would have been a young chief. He’d still like to be one.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “No.”

  “Respect each other?”

  “I think so.”

  “And what about the woman?” I asked. “Golden Princess? Does she exist?”

  “She does.”

  “She’s for real?”

  “Father was an Apache, mother a white woman with golden hair.”

  “Was her mother taken by the Apaches? Or was she herself stolen as a child?”

  “That I don’t know,” Horn said. “I just know that she’s for real, and she holds a lot of power with the Apache.”

  “As much as Geronimo?”

  “Ordinarily I’d say no,” Horn said, after a moment.

  “Why not now?”

  “Geronimo’s gettin’ older,” Horn said. “He still holds the power, but his hold is not as . . . tight.”

  “Aren’t we talking about a small band of Apaches?” Clint asked.

  “Yes,” Horn said, “but they’re expert guerilla fighters, Clint. And they’ve killed a lot of people.”

  “And they may kill more.”

  “Crook doesn’t want to have to bring more troops in,” Horn said. “If he does, there’ll be a bloodbath. We’ll lose a lot of men, and all of the Apaches will end up dead.”

  “How do they feel about this in Washington?”

  Horn looked around. There were men near them, but they didn’t seem to be paying attention. Horn lowered his voice anyway, and leaned in to Clint.

  “You didn’t hear this from me,” he said. “Washington’s gettin’ real impatient.”

  “So that’s why Crook is asking me for help.”

  “A last-ditch effort to get this done,” Horn said. “What’s your connection to Crook?”

  “I knew him a while back, when he was a young officer,” Clint said.

  “You owe this to him?” Horn asked. “Riskin’ your life?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Clint said.

  “Then why would you do it, Clint?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe
I just owe it to everybody, Tom. Why are you doing it?”

  “Me? Hell, it’s my job.”

  “You’re a civilian scout,” Clint said. “You can walk away anytime you want.”

  “Maybe,” Horn said, “but that would mean I’d have to find another job. That’ll happen soon enough. Right now, I started this, and I’d like to finish it.”

  “What happens if I don’t do this?”

  Horn shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to go out again and try to find them,” Horn said. “That is, unless Crook gets replaced by Washington.”

  “You think if he gets replaced, so will you?”

  “A new commander would probably want his own scouts, maybe even his own officers.”

  “And would a new commander come from within?”

  “You mean a promotion for one of the captains? Probably not. I think they’d likely send somebody from Washington to take over. I been hearing rumbling that General Miles would like to come in and clean house.”

  “Miles? Him I don’t know.”

  “Nelson A. Miles,” Horn said. “A lot different than Crook. I don’t think he and I would get along very well.”

  Clint finished his beer and set the empty mug on the bar. “You want me to do this, don’t you, Tom?”

  “I think,” Tom Horn said, “with you and me out there, it could be a lot of fun.”

  FIVE

  Golden Princess was born Fariishta—“Angel”—but that name did not stay with her very long. It became obvious when she was young that she was as fast and as strong as most of the boys her age. In fact, she was stronger and faster than them, and her strength and speed matched that of boys several moons older. As she continued to grow, she resisted the tasks usually given to Apache women.

  By the time she was thirteen, it was clear that she was going to stand six feet or better. She was already an accomplished fighter, mostly because she had to defend herself constantly because of her golden hair. Her mother, a white woman stolen from her home at an early age, also had golden hair. She understood the torment her daughter went through, but she also recognized how strong the girl was becoming because of it.

  “You have your father’s size and strength,” her mother told her, “and his strong will.”

  “What do I have of yours, Mother?”

  Her mother laughed and said, “My hair, daughter, which is the reason you have developed most of your father’s good traits.”

  “And none of his bad ones?”

  “He didn’t have any bad ones,” her mother said.

  But her father had one bad trait as far as Golden Princess was concerned. He was dead, had died in battle when she was very young. So she grew up without a father, with a mother who loved her and tried to be both.

  By the time she was twenty, she was an acknowledged Apache warrior. There were very few female Apache warriors, but those few shared many of the same traits. Lozen, for example, the sister of Apache Chief Victorio, was said to have mystical powers as well as all the skills of a warrior.

  Golden Princess had no such powers, but the braves she had defeated during rites of passage claimed otherwise. They knew that the only way she could have defeated them was by using mystical powers.

  Now Golden Princess had reached twenty-five moons—or years, as her mother said. Her mother was still alive, and traveling with Geronimo. She was in her sixties, had never taken another husband after her husband died.

  Golden Princess had never taken a husband, because she had never found a man who could best her.

  Many Words, however, was trying to change that.

  Many Words was thirty. He felt he was a chief without a tribe. All he had following him now was thirteen warriors, but they were the best warriors he could find. They had killed many whites, almost as many as Golden Princess and her band.

  Golden Princess. When he wasn’t thinking about killing whites, he was thinking about her. He knew why she had never taken a man, and he intended to change that, but they had been riding so many raids lately that they had hardly seen each other.

  Soon, he thought, soon he would bend her to his will and make her his wife. In addition to having her—as he had wanted for many moons now—others would respect him for taming her. And whatever mystic powers she possessed would be his, as well.

  Many Words stood six-two, just barely two inches taller than she was, and was powerfully built. He often wondered if he was going to have to best her in hand-to-hand battle before she would agree to be his wife.

  If that was the case, then that was what he would do.

  Golden Princess stood looking up at the moon, wondering what her life would have been like if she’d been born twenty years ago—or more. What was it like when, as far as the eye could see, the land belonged to the People? Now the whites were trying to force them onto the reservation with false promises. Geronimo was the last great chief, and she would follow him into fire if she had to. She knew some of the young men thought of him as an old woman, but she knew better.

  Their time of freedom in these mountains was limited. She was smart enough to know that. Soon they would be overrun by the whites, and then Geronimo would either be killed or sent to a reservation. And those who followed him would be punished.

  But she had an advantage. Because of her mother’s teaching, she knew some of the ways of the whites. After all, she was half-white. Her mother promised her that if and when the time came to live among the whites, she would still be able to live as a princess.

  “No Apache brave can resist you, my daughter, and the same will be true of any white man. You can have whatever you want.”

  What she wanted now was simply to be the best Apache warrior she could be. Before they were overrun, she wanted to make her mark, kill as many white men as she could, so that when she did live among them, they would respect her—and fear her.

  She turned and walked back to camp, back to her wickiup. There was much still to do, and she had to be well rested.

  He undressed her slowly and she was powerless to stop him. She could only watch, as if detached from her body, and yet she could feel every touch of his fingers, every breath on her body.

  When she was totally naked, he laid her down on a blanket, then ran his hands over her. Her nipples became so hard it was almost painful, but when he licked and sucked them, it felt so good. At the same time, his hand slid down between her legs, delved into that golden thatch of hair that made it seem as if she were glowing down there.

  He stroked her with his fingers, making her wet and sensitive. When he slid down between her legs and pressed his mouth to her, she jumped, as if struck by lightning. No Apache man had ever done that to her. When his tongue plumbed her steamy depths, she cried out and grabbed his hair, wrapping her fingers in it. He slid his hands beneath her butt and lifted her so he could reach her better. He used his tongue and his lips on her, driving her into a frenzy. She felt as if she were floating above, and yet the sensations coursed through her body, setting her on fire . . .

  ... and when she woke, she reached down and found herself wet but unfulfilled.

  Golden Princess sat up on her blanket and looked around. She was still dressed. The man she had dreamed about was white, but she had never seen him before. Had she created him, just for her dreams? Or was he a real man who had invaded her dreams?

  Only the shaman would know for sure . . .

  The shaman told her time and again that she had her own abilities.

  “Daughter,” the old man said, “this is a dream you, yourself, can explain.”

  “But I cannot,” she said. “I dreamed of a man I have never met. I dreamed of doing things I have never done before, with any man. How is this possible?”

  “Perhaps,” the shaman said, “it was not a dream.”

  “Then what?”

  “A vision, perhaps.”

  “Vision?”

  “Of things to come.”

  “But . . . if I met such a man, I would have to kill him,” she said.
“He is white, and my enemy. Why would I lie with him?”

  “Only you can explain that, daughter,” the old man said.

  “You have not helped me at all, old man,” she said critically.

  “You have not helped yourself,” he countered, “and yet you have the power.”

  “Old fool!” she spat, and left the shaman’s wickiup. She was angry, but was she angry at him, or at herself?

  SIX

  Clint stayed at the saloon longer than Horn did. The scout said he had to stretch his legs.

  “If I don’t take a walk every night, I can’t get to sleep,” he said. “I’ll see you in the mornin’?”

  “Early,” Clint said. “I’ll stop at Crook’s office and tell him my decision.”

  “Good,” Horn said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Horn left and Clint had another beer. The place was noisy with rowdy, off-duty soldiers, but things calmed down a bit when Lieutenant Black Jack Pershing walked through the front door.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he said to Clint.

  “Buy you a beer?” Clint asked.

  “I’d like to have a drink with you, but not here,” Pershing said. “Why don’t we go back to my quarters? I don’t want to ruin everyone’s fun here, and as you can see, things got a little quieter when I walked in.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “Your quarters. Lead the way.”

  “Actually,” Pershing said, “you can lead the way. You see, General Crook gave you my quarters while you’re here.”

  “I can always bunk in with the enlisted men,” Clint said as they entered Pershing’s quarters. “Or with Tom Horn.”

  “No, this is fine,” Pershing assured him. “Brandy?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Pershing went to a small sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy, handed one to Clint. There were two armchairs in the room, facing each other, and they both sat down.

  “So,” Clint said, “do you want to talk me into this, or out of it?”

  “General Crook told me that if you agreed to this, you want me and my buffalo soldiers to accompany you.”