Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  She stood with her back to the door and eyed the jar. A large shadow fell across the counter as someone entered behind her. In the next instant, Sudie Mae actually stopped chattering, but only long enough to draw breath. Then she let out an ear-piercing scream.

  “Eeeee! Indians! Help, somebody! We’re bein’ attacked! We’re all gonna die! We’re gonna be scalped!”

  Angela spun around, as did the three men in the far corner and the man stocking the shelves behind the counter. In the doorway stood a coppery-skinned man and two children. The man’s thick black hair hung past his shoulders. It was held back from his face by a red bandanna wrapped around his forehead. He wore a Yankee blue flannel Army shirt, light blue trowsers with a breech cloth hanging over them to mid-thigh, and tall moccasins. He had the coldest, blackest eyes Angela had ever seen.

  At each elbow stood a child, same thick black hair, but with lighter skin and sky-blue eyes. The boy’s hair was short, and the girl’s had a streak of white at her temple. They both looked like they were fighting back a severe case of the giggles.

  The man was definitely an Indian, and the children were probably part Indian, but Angela failed to see anything even remotely threatening about the trio, except for the man’s cold, hard stare directed at the Latimer women.

  Sudie Mae and her mother still shrieked from their corner, and the man behind the counter joined in the commotion. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, Shanta? I may be forced to let you in here ‘cause you work for the Army, but I by God don’t have to let them there half-breed nits in here. Go on! Out with the lot of ya. Can’t you see you’re upsettin’ these ladies?”

  A blank, emotionless mask dropped over all three of the dark faces. The women in the corner finally stopped their screaming long enough to breathe, and in the total silence that reigned, Shanta and the children turned and left.

  “Well I do declare!” Mrs. Latimer cried, marching up to the counter. “Just what kind of place is this where decent white folks have to be scared out of their wits by a bunch of dirty, stinkin’ Injuns?”

  “Real sorry you were so scared, ma’am, but you needn’t be,” the man behind the counter assured her. “Shanta’s an Apache scout—”

  “An Apache!”

  “Yes, ma’am. He scouts for the Army.”

  “And I suppose those dirty little breeds are the result of him forcing himself on some poor, defenseless white woman?”

  “Oh, no ma’am. If that was the case, the Army wouldn’t have nothing to do with him. No, the twins live on a ranch over near Tucson. So ya see, you weren’t really in any danger.”

  “Well I should hope not!” Mrs. Latimer’s bosom quivered with indignation. “All the same, we decent folk appreciate you getting them out of here. Imagine! Half-breeds runnin’ around here like they was white folk!”

  Angela cringed with each exchange of words. She held her tongue as long as she could, then had to speak. “They were only children, Mrs. Latimer.”

  “But Angela, dearie, they’re half-breeds. Dirty little half-breeds.”

  Angela frowned. “You mean because they have mixed blood?”

  “Well of course it’s mixed! What ever are you thinkin’, girl?”

  “I was just trying to understand why their mixed blood is such a problem, when mine doesn’t seem to be. Or Sudie Mae’s, for that matter.”

  Mrs. Latimer straightened like a starched sheet in a stiff wind. “My girl’s no breed, missy. And neither are you!”

  “Why not? I’m half English and half heaven-only-knows-what. And since you’re Dutch and Mr. Latimer’s German, that means Sudie Mae’s got mixed blood, too. I was just trying to figure out the difference. Could I have five of those peppermint sticks please?” she added to the astonished clerk.

  Angela’s heart pounded. Her knees threatened to buckle. She had no idea why she’d spoken out like that, except it angered her to see those poor children treated that way.

  The clerk glared at her while he fished the candy out of the jar. Angela placed her money on the counter, took her peppermint sticks, and walked out the door. She spotted the two children—twins, the clerk had said—standing next to the hitching rail, wearing identical wooden expressions.

  A man ran toward them from the direction of the corrals. A big man, with blond, wavy hair and a scar on his cheek. Something grisly hung from his neck. It looked like some sort of animal claws. Angela shivered. He reached the twins before she did; anger radiated from him in tangible waves.

  “What the hell’s going on? They probably heard that screaming clear in the next county.”

  Angela screwed up her courage, stepped in front of him and shouted, “Leave them alone!”

  The man halted and stared at her like she’d lost her mind. He glanced sharply from her to the twins, then over to the scout, Shanta, who leaned negligently against the side of the store. “I asked what the hell is going on,” the blond man repeated.

  “Just keep away from them,” Angela warned. “They’ve been through enough for one day. They don’t need the likes of you calling them any more dirty names.” She turned from him to kneel before the twins, forcing a smile for their benefit.

  The little girl tilted her head to one side and said, “Why did you take up for us in there?”

  Angela blinked in surprise, not having expected them to speak English—and such perfect English it was. “Because they were wrong,” she said.

  “No they weren’t,” the boy answered. “We are half-breeds.”

  “So? One of your parents is white and one’s Indian. What does that have to do with anything? I didn’t get to choose my parents either.”

  The twins’ looks of amazement matched that of the big blond man who now stood behind them and faced Angela. She ignored him. “I, uh, came to buy a treat, but I bought too much. Do you suppose you could help me?” She held out her handful of peppermint sticks. “I only needed three. If you each take one, then my father won’t yell at me for buying too many.”

  The twins looked at each other, then up at the blond man. “Can we, Matt?” the little girl asked.

  Angela was confused as she looked up at him. Why would the girl ask permission of the man who’d just been yelling at them? What was he to these twins? For one brief instant her eyes met his. His gaze trapped hers and she felt like she was drowning in warm brown velvet. Something light and wonderful fluttered in her chest. A question played across his eyes, then something else. Something almost like gratitude. Then he smiled, a slow, devastating smile that took her breath away, and nodded. “Thank the lady.”

  Angela wanted nothing more than to go on staring into his eyes and return that smile. Instead, she forced her attention back to the twins and gave them each a peppermint stick.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” they said in unison.

  The constant background noise from inside the store erupted as the two Latimer women emerged. “I do declare, Sudie Mae, would you look at that! Consortin’ with heathens.”

  “Yeah, Ma. A body just never knows about some people.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” Mrs. Latimer said as she huffed past Angela and marched back toward the wagons. “Just wait till her pa hears about this!”

  Angela shook her head at their backs. “Don’t pay any attention to them,” she told the twins. “They just don’t know any better. Some people can only feel good about themselves by pretending they’re better than others. People like that aren’t worth worrying about. How’s the candy?”

  She waited until each one took a lick, then rose to her feet. “I’d better get back now. You take care.” When she was halfway to the corrals, she turned back for a final wave. The four of them—the twins, the blond man, and the scout—were standing there, staring at her.

  Chapter Three

  The wagons nooned at the cottonwood-lined crossing of the San Pedro River, taking advantage of the available water and shade. It was their third day past Camp Bowie.

  In the wagon belonging to Joseph Ba
rnes, things weren’t going well.

  “She’s awful sick, Papa. She needs a doctor,” Angela whispered. Keeping her voice low was pointless. Sarah Barnes was delirious with fever and couldn’t hear a thing. Angela whispered anyway, more out of fear than anything. “There was a doctor back at the fort. Couldn’t we take her there?”

  Joseph felt his wife’s heated face. He chewed his lower lip a moment, then said, “I’ll go check with Hargrave and see which is closer, the fort, or Tucson.”

  While he was gone, Angela continued sponging her mother’s face. The heat inside the wagon was stifling. It felt like there was no air at all, only this terrible, unremitting heat. Even the horsefly buzzing around the front opening seemed to be panting.

  A gunshot echoed off the encircled wagons. Angela jumped, nearly knocking over the bowl of water beside her mother. Excited voices called questions back and forth outside. Angela poked her head out the back end of the wagon.

  “Never mind folks!” Hargrave hollered. “It’s just Miller, doing a little target practice.”

  Angela’s mind barely registered anything beyond the fact that nothing serious was happening. She breathed a short sigh and resumed her seat in the wagon. Her mind was totally occupied by her mother. As far as Angela could remember, Sarah Barnes had never been sick, except for an occasional lung congestion. Now she lay there helpless, delirious with fever, struggling for every breath, and Angela was scared.

  A few minutes later Joseph returned, his gaze going directly to Sarah while he spoke to Angela. “It’s as far to Tucson as it is back to Apache Pass. Ward says the last time he was in Tucson, they didn’t have a doctor. I can’t chance that. I told him when we break camp in another hour or so, we’ll be heading back for Camp Bowie while the others go on. We should make it by ourselves just fine. How is she?”

  “She’s a little quieter now, but the fever’s still high.” Angela’s chin quivered. She lowered her eyes to hide the stinging moisture from her father, but he saw.

  “Don’t fret, honey,” he said, putting his arm around her. “We’ll get her to the doctor and she’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  Even in the stifling heat, her father’s arm around her felt good. Strong and comforting. To change the subject, she asked, “What was that shooting about? What did Miller shoot this time, somebody’s laying hen?” Angela shuddered, remembering the Hilmers’ dog.

  The Hilmers had five children from ages ten to two, and one hound dog. At least, they used to have a dog, till the night Miller accidentally stepped on its tail. The dog had yelped, then leaped for Miller and grabbed a mouthful of pant leg. Miller kicked the growling hound away, calmly drew his pistol, and shot the dog right between the eyes—in front of all five Hilmer children.

  And it wasn’t a shooting that was hushed up, either. After the crying was over, the Hilmer children gathered up all the youngsters in camp, and there were plenty. They carried the dead dog to a low hill, and cried and pleaded until Ward Hargrave himself was persuaded to come and say words at the graveside service.

  Angela’s lips twitched at the memory of the tongue lashing Hargrave gave Miller after having to face all those crying children.

  In spite of her humor at his expense, however, she was still terrified of the man. Every time she saw him, she heard again the sound of snapping bones. She’d never told anyone about what she’d seen in the alley that night. She was still too afraid.

  “No,” Joseph answered. “No, this time it was an Apache, or so he says.”

  “An Apache! Are we under attack?”

  “I hardly think so, Angie Sue. He was probably just shooting at shadows. He went out and scouted across the river and couldn’t even find any tracks. If there was someone or something out there, it’s gone now. I think he was just showing off for that Swedish girl, what’s her name?”

  “You mean Helga?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Angela was relieved to hear Miller was interested in someone else besides her, but she’d have to warn Helga, who was a silly girl, and not too bright. (Helga considered Sudie Mae Latimer her best friend.) Mr. Miller was not above taking advantage anywhere he could.

  Like the night before they reached Fort Smith, when he’d caught Angela alone at the wagon. He’d come up behind her and pinched her fiercely on her backside. Angela had shrieked, and without even thinking, she had turned quickly and struck him across the cheek so hard her hand had stung all the next day.

  Stunned surprise had wiped the grin off Miller’s face, only to be followed by a mean, vicious glare. It was a look that said he’d get even some day. From then on, Angela made sure she was never alone.

  “This water’s too warm, Angie Sue,” her father said, interrupting her thoughts. “Why don’t you take the small pail to the river and get some cool, fresh water for your mother?”

  Angela took the bucket and climbed from the back of the wagon. It was good to be able to stretch her legs for a few minutes.

  “Watch the heat, honey,” her father called out to her.

  Watch the heat. That was the trouble. She could watch the heat. It rippled up from the ground in liquid waves. She could almost see her skin drying out under the burning rays of the sun, and she could certainly feel it. Memphis had been hot in summer, but nowhere near this hot!

  The trees along the river offered shade, and the gurgle of running water gave the impression of coolness. Wanting privacy, Angela walked a half mile upstream. She knelt beside the river in the shade of a giant cottonwood and brushed loose tendrils of pale blond hair off her damp neck. She ran a hand along the single braid wrapped in a coronet around her head and rearranged a pin or two to keep it snugly in place.

  Leaning over, she splashed her face with water, then, with her eyes still closed, turned her face into the slight stirring of air not quite strong enough to be called a breeze. The water evaporated from her skin almost instantly. It left her face feeling tight and dry.

  Was Tucson this hot and dry? Heaven forbid!

  She sat still and tried to think cool thoughts. It didn’t help. Instead, her mind wandered. She worried about her mother. She worried about Miller. But try as she might to clear her mind, a soft pair of warm brown eyes came to her, unbidden, behind her closed lids.

  Matt. The girl had called him Matt.

  She’d thought about him a lot since leaving the fort. Him and the twins. What was he to them? When she and her father took her mother back to the fort, would the tall blond man still be there? Were the twins still with him?

  Even after three days, she could still feel the fluttering in her stomach and the stumbling of her heart whenever she pictured his eyes. And his smile.

  Her reminiscing was abruptly interrupted when a large, dark hand swept from behind and clamped over her mouth. Another arm snaked around her waist and held her firmly against the rock hard wall of a man’s chest. Panic assailed her. The scream that couldn’t escape her constricted throat nearly strangled her. She struggled to free herself, but her kneeling position made movement difficult.

  “Be still!” a harsh, accented voice whispered in her ear. “If you help me, and don’t scream, I won’t harm you. If you scream or try to run I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” When she didn’t answer immediately, the man squeezed her waist tighter, cutting off her breath. “Do you understand!”

  Panic stricken, Angela tried to nod her head. It was nearly impossible, considering the grip he had on her, but she managed to let her assailant know she understood. His grip relaxed slowly. When she could, she took in great gulps of air. She didn’t care how hot it was now, at least it was air.

  Her captor forced her to turn around, and she stared into the blackest eyes she’d ever seen. The man’s skin was coppery brown, and his thick, black hair hung well past his shoulders. He reminded her of the scout at Camp Bowie, the only real difference being his clothes. Except for a loin cloth and a pair of tall moccasins, this man was totally nude. The sight of all that dark, bare skin terrified her. />
  “Bandage my leg,” he ordered.

  “Wh-What?”

  “If I’m going to get out of here before that trigger-happy fool comes looking for me again, I need my leg bandaged.”

  Angela had heard about people going into shock before, and now she figured that’s what had happened to her. All she could do was sit there and stare at the man, and vaguely realize that her panic was subsiding.

  “You’re an Apache!” she blurted out. But if he really was an Apache, and he certainly fit the description, why wasn’t she still terrified?

  “You figured that out all on your own, did you? Well, right now I’m a wounded Apache, and I’d appreciate your help. If I don’t get back to the others soon, they’ll come looking for me, and then there’ll be trouble. I’d like to avoid that if possible. If your man was a better shot, or a better tracker, I’d be dead by now.”

  “My goodness! You certainly don’t talk like an…” Angela swallowed the rest of her words, realizing how offensive they would have sounded.

  But the man before her had obviously been around. He seemed to pick her unsaid words right out of her brain. “Like an illiterate savage?” he supplied.

  “I didn’t—” Angela’s tongue stammered to a halt. Her face heated to an unbearable degree that had nothing to do with the sun or the temperature.

  How could she even think to call him such a thing after what had happened at the fort! She lowered her eyes in shame and confusion. That was when she noticed his leg. “You’re bleeding!”

  “Keep your voice down,” he warned. But his harsh tone was softened by the totally unthreatening look in his eyes.

  Tending wounds was nothing new to a girl who’d grown up during the War Between the States. Young as she’d been, every available hand had been needed to tend the wounded when the Yankees came to town.

  The Apache had piled green leaves over the twin holes in the front and back of his thigh to try to stop the bleeding. Angela peeled them away and set to work cleaning the wound.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as she tore a strip from the one petticoat she wore. Her question surprised both of them.