The Golden Princess

by J. R. Roberts

  “The Indians, suh?” Washington asked.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Pershing said. “The Indians.”

  The sergeant turned and yelled, “Private!”

  While the buffalo soldiers followed orders, Pershing and Clint turned their attention to the captured Apache.

  “What is your name?”

  The man did not answer.

  “He said the other Apache who went over the side was his brother,” Clint said.

  “Your brother is dead,” Pershing said. “We will bury him for you.”

  “We do not bury our dead.”

  “I know that,” Pershing said.

  “If you bury him, his soul will be trapped here,” the brave said.

  “I tell you what,” Pershing said. “You tell us your name, and who you ride with, and we’ll let you take your brother and return to your people.”

  The man blinked, studied Pershing, then looked at Clint.

  “Does he lie?”

  “He does not lie,” Clint said. “Neither do I.”

  “I am Lieutenant Black Jack Pershing,” Pershing said, “and this is Clint Adams, the Gunsmith.”

  The brave stared at Clint.

  “Do you know who we are?” Pershing asked.

  “I know his name,” the brave said. “Unless you are lying.”

  “We told you,” Clint said. “We’re not.”

  “You are the Gunsmith?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “and I want to talk with Geronimo.”

  “Geronimo will not talk with you.”

  “I’d like to ask him myself,” Clint said. “Let me accompany you when you take your brother back.”

  “Alone?” the man asked.

  “Yes, alone.”

  “Adams—” Pershing said.

  “This is what I came out here for, Jack, remember?” Clint asked. He looked at the brave. “What’s your name?”

  “I am called Running Free,” the man said. “My brother is—was—Little Bear.”

  “Running Free,” Clint said, “I will help you take your brother back to your people. All I want is a sit-down with Geronimo.”

  Running Free frowned.

  “Think about it overnight,” Pershing said. “You can decide in the morning.”

  “Very well.”

  “We’ll have to bind you.”

  “I will not leave without my brother.”

  “Nevertheless,” Pershing said, “we’ll bind you and keep you under guard.”

  The brave nodded and was led away.

  Later, at the campfire, over bacon, beans, and coffee, Pershing again tried to talk Clint out of his plan.

  “Let’s let him go, with his brother’s body, and follow him.”

  “Who’s going to follow him?”

  “Horn can do it.”

  “He’s not in any shape to do it.”

  “Then you, with a few of my men.”

  “He’ll know.”

  “Then you, alone.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Well, it is to me,” Clint said. “If you want, you and your men can track us. Horn can do that, and if not, then Reynaldo. At least this way I can get to Geronimo.”

  “What makes you think Geronimo won’t have you killed as soon as you set foot in his camp?”

  “Geronimo is not a stupid man,” Clint said. “He knows his time is limited. He doesn’t have a large force behind him. He’ll want to hear what I have to say. And there’s never been any personal contact between us. There’s no history.”

  Pershing finished the last of his food and set his plate aside. Clint helped himself to some more. His efforts of the afternoon had given him an increased appetite.

  Pershing poured himself another cup of coffee, then one for Clint. He looked over at Running Free, whose hands had been untied so he could eat. He was scooping beans and bacon into his mouth with his hand.

  “Can you trust him?”

  “Of course not,” Clint said, “but he does want to take his brother’s body back to his people. I can probably trust him that far. Besides, I’ll be armed, and he won’t.”

  “That won’t help you when you reach Geronimo’s camp,” Pershing pointed out.

  “This is the way it has to be, Jack,” Clint said. “This is what Crook asked me to do, and I’m going to do it.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Clint heard the sentries moving around all night. Watches were set in twos, one to watch Running Free and the other just to keep watch. Only Pershing, Clint, the scouts, the sergeant, and the corporal did not take part, but one time when Clint went to the fire for some coffee he found Horn there.

  “Can’t sleep?” Clint asked.

  Horn looked up from his cup of coffee.

  “Not a wink.”

  “The shoulder?”

  Clint crouched down, poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “No,” Horn said, “I mean, it throbs, but I told you, I don’t sleep much anyway. What about you?”

  “Just restless.”

  They drank their coffee in silence for a few moments, and then Horn said, “I could go with you, you know.”

  “I think it’s better if I go alone, Tom,” Clint said.

  “You’ll need somebody to watch your back.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t want to take a chance on you getting hurt even worse. Besides, Pershing needs you.”

  “Take Reynaldo.”

  “I can’t,” Clint said. “I don’t trust him.”

  “You mean you suspect him—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” Clint said. “I just don’t know him well, so I can’t trust him to watch my back. I’d rather watch it myself. You’re the only one I’d trust, but we’ve gone over that already.”

  “What’s this about?”

  They both looked up, saw Pershing.

  “Can’t sleep either?” Clint asked.

  “No. Any coffee left?”

  “Sure.”

  Pershing grabbed a cup and Clint poured it full for him. The lieutenant crouched down at the fire.

  “How’s the shoulder?” he asked Horn.

  “It’s fine.”

  “You going to be able to ride tomorrow?”

  “No problem.”

  “Maybe you should head back to the fort,” Pershing suggested.

  “No,” Horn said, “I’ll finish what we started.”

  Pershing looked at Clint.

  “Still intent on going alone?”

  “I just went over that with him,” Horn said. “He’s stubborn.”

  “I’m learning that,” Pershing said.

  “You got any men who can’t ride?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Pershing said. “A couple of flesh wounds; one man bruised his hip when he fell off his horse, but they can all ride. The problem is, we don’t know where to ride to.”

  “Just keep going in the same direction,” Clint said. “Somebody might be looking for those dead Apaches soon. They might find you.”

  “I don’t want to get in a firefight while you’re talking to Geronimo.”

  “You do what you have to do,” Clint said. “You’ll probably run into Nachite’s men, or Many Words’s first.”

  “Or your Golden Princess?” Pershing asked.

  “She’s for real,” Horn said.

  “Come on.”

  “She is,” Horn said.

  “A golden-haired female warrior?” Pershing asked.

  “A white man leading a troop of black soldiers?” Clint asked. “Which one sounds more unbelievable?”

  Pershing scratched his head, dumped the remnants of his coffee into the flames.

  “I better try to get some sleep.”

  He got up and went back to his bedroll.

  “I guess I better try to get some shut-eye, too,” Clint said. “I might be in for a long day.” He stood up. “See you later, Tom.”

  “I’ll make some more coffee,�
� Horn said, “just in case.”

  Clint nodded, and returned to his own bedroll.

  On his way to his bedroll Clint passed Running Free, who was awake, his hands bound behind him.

  “Can’t sleep?” Clint asked. “Want me to tie you in front?”

  “I do not need sleep,” the Apache said.

  “We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow, don’t we?” Clint asked. “You need some rest.”

  “I will be fine,” Running Free said. “The ride may not be very far.”

  “You mean Geronimo might be camped near here?” Clint asked.

  “Geronimo moves around,” the Apache said.

  “Will you be able to find him?”

  Abruptly, the man fell over onto his side and said, “I must sleep now.”

  The woman came to him in a dream . . .

  She was beautiful, with the dark skin of an Apache woman but the blond hair of a white woman. Physically she was remarkable, amazing, like no woman he’d ever seen before.

  She drew him into her wickiup and there he undressed her slowly. At six feet she was a big, solid woman, but she was in no way fat. Everything was in proportion. She had long, strong legs, wide hips, full breasts with dark nipples. He cupped them in his hands, kissed them, licked them, gently nibbled on the nipples until they were swollen.

  He laid her down on the blanket, began kissing her, running his hands over her, down between her legs. She became wet right away, moaned, reached down to clutch his hand, but rather than try to remove it she held it there, closed her thighs over it . . .

  In the dream, before he knew it, he was naked, too. He slid a leg over her, straddled her, pressed the head of his penis against her wet vagina . . . and abruptly woke up . . .

  Clint sat up on his bedroll and looked around. Horn was still crouched by the fire; the sentries were still in place. He looked over at Running Free, who appeared to be asleep.

  He wiped his hands over his face. The dream seemed so real that he was erect, and he felt oddly . . . embarrassed about it. He reached for his water canteen and took a large swig.

  The woman in his dream was what he imagined the Golden Princess would look like. But it felt so real, like more than just a dream.

  He wanted to go to the fire to ask Horn some questions, but he decided against it. He still had a few hours to get some rest before they would be moving out in the morning.

  He lay back down, folded his arms over his chest, and tried to go back to sleep. He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted the dream to still be there.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In the morning they all had breakfast, then saddled their mounts and broke camp.

  “We’ll keep going through the pass,” Pershing said.

  “And I’ll go wherever Running Free says to go,” Clint replied.

  “You can’t trust him.”

  “I know,” Clint said, “but I can trust that he wants to get his brother’s body to his people. Either way, I’ll end up there.”

  He turned and looked to where two buffalo soldiers were tying Little Bear’s body to one of the Indian ponies. Running Free was mounted on the other one, his hands still tied, this time in front.

  Clint walked over and said, “Untie him.”

  Sergeant Washington looked at Clint.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll be riding right behind him,” Clint said. “And he’s not going anywhere without his brother’s body. Untie him.”

  Sergeant Washington said to one of the soldiers, “Untie him.”

  Clint turned and Pershing put out his hand. Clint shook it.

  “Good luck,” the lieutenant said.

  “Thanks,” Clint responded. “You, too.”

  Black Jack Pershing walked away and Tom Horn presented himself.

  “Time to change your mind,” he said. “I can come with you.”

  “I know you can, Tom,” Clint said. “I appreciate the offer.”

  Clint turned and walked to Eclipse, whom he had saddled only minutes before.

  “Mount up!” Pershing shouted, and Washington repeated the order.

  Clint watched as Pershing, Horn, Reynaldo, and the column of men rode back into the pass.

  “Okay, Running Free,” he said, “where do we go?”

  Running Free turned and looked at Clint. He was holding the reins of his brother’s pony in one hand.

  “Up,” he said to Clint. “We go up.”

  “Fine,” Clint said. “Lead the way.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint followed Running Free up the mountain. They were moving at a good pace. The Indian ponies were sure-footed, and Eclipse—despite his size—was keeping up.

  “Hey, hold up a minute,” Clint called.

  Running Free stopped, turned.

  “What is it?”

  “Your brother is slipping.”

  Clint dismounted before Running Free could. He went to the pony and tightened the ropes that were holding the body in place. When he was finished, he walked to his horse and got his canteen.

  “Water?” he asked the Apache.

  “Yes.”

  He took the canteen to Running Free and handed it to him. The Apache put it to his mouth and took a drink. Then he handed it back to Clint, who took a swig. The Apache was surprised when the white man did not first wipe it off.

  Clint walked back to his horse and mounted up.

  “How much longer?” he asked. “We’ve got half a day.”

  “Soon.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Let’s go.”

  Running Free started forward again. He was puzzled by the white man’s actions. First, why did he care if Little Bear’s spirit was trapped on earth or not? Why would he care if Little Bear’s body slipped off the horse and fell to the ground? Most white men would have laughed.

  Finally, why did he give Running Free water, and then drink from the same canteen? Most white men would have wiped it on their shirt first.

  Running Free had heard many stories about the Gunsmith. And Clint Adams and the scout, Horn, did save his life. Running Free did not think it was only because they thought he could lead them to Geronimo.

  Running Free knew a good man when he met one, even an enemy. He was surprised to find two of them riding with the soldiers. Two good white men was two more than most Apaches thought existed.

  He was almost sorry that he was leading Clint Adams to his death.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was almost dark when Clint called out to Running Free, “Hey!”

  The Apache stopped.

  “I thought you said we’d make it in one day,” he said.

  Running Free turned.

  “They must have moved.”

  “Well, we’ll have to camp or break our necks up here,” Clint said.

  “I know the way in the dark.”

  “Maybe you do, but I’m not risking my horse breaking a leg,” Clint told him. “We’re camping now.”

  Running Free shrugged.

  “As you wish.”

  “I’ll make a fire,” Clint said. “We can leave your brother on the pony.”

  “Agreed.”

  They both dismounted.

  “Don’t try anything, Running Free. I don’t want to kill you, but I will.”

  “I believe you. Do you want to bind me?”

  “I might,” Clint said. “When we go to sleep. But not now.”

  Clint built a fire. He had a sack hanging on his saddle with a coffeepot, two cups, a frying pan, some beans, coffee, and bacon. Before long they were seated around the fire, eating.

  “Do you want some coffee?” he asked Running Free.

  “I have never tasted it.”

  “Here, try some,” Clint said. “At the very least it’ll keep your insides warm. It’s going to get cool on this mountain.”

  He poured some into a tin cup and handed it to Running Free.

  “It is very hot.”

  “Don’t burn your tongue.”

  Runn
ing Free lifted the cup to his mouth, then pulled it away.

  “See what I mean? Blow on it. Sometimes that cools it off faster.”

  Running Free looked at Clint, then brought the cup back to his mouth and blew. Finally, he tasted the hot coffee.

  “It is good,” he said.

  “Finish that and I’ll give you some more.”

  “Your food is good, also,” the brave said.

  “I’d rather have a buffalo steak, myself. And a hide to pull around me.”

  “It will get colder.”

  The Apache had taken the blanket from his pony’s back and pulled it around him. Likewise, Clint had a blanket over his shoulders.

  Clint heard Eclipse nicker behind them, turned, and took a look.

  “Let’s move the horses closer to us,” he said. “I don’t want some critter—maybe a big cat—getting to your brother’s body.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Why would I want to see your brother’s body eaten by a cat?”

  “Most white men would not care.”

  “Well,” Clint said, standing and brushing his hands off, “in case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not most white men.”

  Clint walked over to the horses, moved all three closer to the fire, and then tied them off. Running Free watched from the fire, sipping his coffee.

  “Your horse,” he said as Clint came back to the fire, “it is a magnificent animal.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He means a lot to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Indian ponies,” the Apache said, “we never know if we will have to eat our horse. We cannot become attached to an animal.”

  “I can understand that.”

  Running Free held out his cup and Clint filled it with coffee, this time almost to the top. Then he did the same for himself.

  “Running Free, you wouldn’t be leading me into a trap, would you?” he asked.

  “A trap?”

  “Like maybe we’re being watched right now. We go to sleep, some of your braves come in and take my scalp.”

  “It was not us who started the scalping,” Running Free said. “That was started by white men.”

  Clint knew this was true. That was a time when white men were paying bounties for Indians, and instead of bringing bodies back, bounty hunters would come back with scalps.