Kiss Of The Night Wind

by Taylor, Janelle

  Most people didn’t know it and few would probably believe it, but he did have a code of honor, one instilled by his parents and the Apaches, and fortified by the good men he knew. He could hold his own against any man, match his skills and prowess against the best, and that wasn’t boasting. He had traveled far and wide during his missions, and had left behind him a reputation as a legendary gunslinger. He sometimes wished people knew the truth about him so he would have their respect and acceptance. But he couldn’t get his vital tasks done if people knew him as Thaddeus Jerome Jamison, Special Agent to the President, or U.S. Marshal, or Texas Ranger.

  He was obligated to defeat criminals, especially the Stover Gang. But he hadn’t bargained on this beautiful complication. This was a desperate situation which would force him to battle everything he was and all he believed in; yet, he couldn’t hold back or retreat. He was honor-bound to seize victory any way necessary.

  Lordy, last night seemed ages away from this one. After his shocking talk with Joe Collins, he had hunted down Martin Ferris’s three henchmen and slain them. He hoped Charlie Shibell, the Pima County Sheriff and his good friend, would be able to get evidence against Ferris so the man couldn’t give them trouble on the trail. He wanted Ferris to pay for his many crimes. T.J. realized that Martin would send men after them the moment they were discovered missing, even if he did or didn’t know the truth. But once he saw Carrie Sue’s poster, the Tucson mineowner would be determined to possess the fiery-haired vixen who had duped him and enflamed his desire.

  Strange, but reality seemed distant and unimportant at this moment. All he wanted at this maddening time was the redheaded vixen at the river. He would have to keep reminding himself of who and what she was.

  Carrie Sue completed her bath and dried off with her dirty shirt. She washed it and tossed it over a branch to dry by morning, along with the cotton riding skirt and undergarments. She needed to keep her clothes and body washed whenever possible, as she couldn’t always count on having water for such chores. She donned a deep blue shirt and snug jeans, and braided her golden red hair. She had been so calm and limp when she began her bath, but it had stimulated her. Now, she was strangely tense and alert. Perhaps it was her garments, braided hair, and being on the trail again which altered her from the lovestruck woman to the wary desperado.

  As she gathered her things to rejoin her lover, Carrie Sue’s mind was in turmoil. She had been given time to think, time for her fear to be leashed, time for her wits to come to full strength. T.J. had her confused and agitated. He was the only man besides her brother and Kale that she had trusted, to whom she had gotten this close. But she had lied to him, and he knew it. She was a valuable prize, and he knew it. She was a notorious outlaw, and he wasn’t. She admitted she needed his help in escaping, as she couldn’t imagine how many men were chasing her at this moment. Prison or a hanging was staring her in the face and, yes, she was scared. Only a fool wouldn’t be!

  But was it fair to involve her love in such perils? There was no future for them, and she didn’t even know if T.J. Rogue wanted anything permanent with her. Wherever she went, someone would know about her, would have seen her poster, would endanger any new life she tried to begin. She couldn’t get him killed. Bounty hunters would be eager to track her down for ten thousand dollars, and lawmen would be anxious to arrest the Texas Flame just for glory.

  But something else was nagging at her. T.J. hadn’t questioned her about her brother, his gang, and their past actions. Wouldn’t any man, particularly a lover, want to know what she had done and why? He had stolen her wits and heart as easily as drawing his revolver. He had sneaked to see her Sunday night to unleash her passion for him, conveniently in time to seal their bond before this trouble began. Too, she had seen him leaving the telegraph office in Tucson. Why?

  But there was more to worry her. That sheriff had sneaked into her room just as they were escaping, to compel T.J. more tightly into her hazardous life. The handsome Rogue had been at the home station for an accidental meeting and had accidentally been around when the stage was attacked so he could rescue her. Then, shortly after her talk with past gang member Curly James, T.J. had gunned him down.

  What if it all was a clever ruse to get at her? What if T.J. wasn’t who or what he claimed to be? What if that poster he had shown to her was false? What if he had printed it and shown it to her to send her on the trail toward Darby and his gang? What if he had been using his cunning to get close to her before tricking her? What if he was using her to get to Darby? And what would her brother say if and when she turned up with T.J. Rogue?

  It was terrible not trusting a man under such conditions; yet, she had trained herself to be wary. Before she made her final conclusions, she had to discover the truth about her love. If he was after Darby and the Stover Gang, once she told him where they were or led him there, their love affair would be over and she would lose him. Perhaps she would have to kill him for betraying her. Carrie Sue returned to camp to find two bedrolls stretched out.

  T.J. grinned and said, “If we’re going to get any sleep tonight, it has to be separately. I won’t be able to leave you alone if I’m touching you. We have a long, hard ride tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” she concurred, “we do, Mr. Rogue.”

  They rose at dawn, ate quickly and quietly, and were on the trail shortly after sunup, T.J. and Carrie Sue rode as swiftly as the rugged terrain and heat would allow, not wanting to overtire or overheat the animals and themselves. She watched the landscape become hilly and rolling. The flatlands were lost for a time, as were the numberless yuccas and variety of cacti—except for occasional prickly pears which fanned out on the dry earth, often to cover spaces of three to five feet. Trees were taller and mesquites were rarer. Loose boulders formed piles of rocks which seemingly spread out for miles on both sides of them. It made her nervous because there were so many places where they could be attacked and entrapped; yet, they continued.

  The beautiful fugitive and the handsome gunslinger covered less distance that day than on Thursday. They camped in the Little Dragoon Mountains in a small valley between towering rock formations where lush grass was growing and a shallow seep was located, making the fatigued redhead glad her lover was familiar with this territory.

  They had talked little during their arduous journey that day and in camp that night. They both knew their silence was not totally due to their exhaustion. Yet, they watched each other furtively and smiled when their gazes met, and they shared the few chores genially. Even though the rockenclosed valley was off the nearby road, they were careful to watch and listen for stages and riders as they took turns sleeping.

  Again, they arose early. As they headed out Carrie Sue couldn’t help but wonder why T.J. did not bring up the questions she thought should be asked. At least he should try to discuss why they were riding toward the very states in which she was wanted! He should want to know if she knew where to find her brother and if she was heading to rejoin the Stover Gang! As the day progressed, her worries, fears, and doubts increased.

  T.J. guided them safely past Dragoon Springs and the Butterfield Stage station. He told her they needed to travel swiftly through this area which was so close to her last known location. He promised they could halt for rest for a few days in the Chiricahua Mountains: a day to a day and a half beyond them.

  The air was hot and dry, too arid for cooling perspiration to form on her body. The blazing sun seemed to penetrate her shirt and jeans and sear her flesh, and she knew from experience that even clothed flesh could burn badly. She felt as if her hat was doing little good, as if her brains were being cooked slowly. She stayed thirsty, but knew the danger of drinking too much water too quickly; it was safer to sip frequently than to guzzle large amounts. She also didn’t want to use up their water supply before reaching the next source. She concluded that the desert was wildly beautiful, but deadly. As the landscape of boulders and deep ravines continued on both sides of them, the daring desperado’s apprehension mo
unted and she struggled to remain alert in the dazing heat.

  Just after their midday break, they rode into the midst of concealed Indians who rapidly surrounded them. Carrie Sue paled with fear. T.J. held himself erect and proud.

  “Don’t touch your weapons; they’re Apaches.” he warned. “That’s the infamous Geronimo coming toward us. Keep silent and let me get us out of this. If you speak, woman, they’ll be insulted and very angry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  T.J. lifted his hand and greeted the renegades with the correct Apache words and signal. He touched his chest and revealed, “Biishe, nagushnlti-ye Cochise, shitaa’ daalk’ida.” The ebon-haired man told them he was “Nighthawk, adopted son of Cochise, his father long ago.”

  Carrie Sue did as her lover ordered; she kept still and silent. Yet, she was amazed by T.J.’s knowledge of the Apache language and signals, and she was baffled by how calm he seemed around warriors who had slain his parents years ago. There was something he hadn’t told her…

  A stocky warrior approached them. Slowly the Apache circled the white couple and looked them over thoroughly. He said, “Benasi’nldal,” which meant Nighthawk had forgotten about him.

  “Duuda,” T.J. refuted. He explained that he had needed to return to keeya’, his homeland to search for his family. In Apache, he continued, “I needed to learn of the white man and my history. I have never forgotten my Apache brothers and history. I have never turned against them or battled them.”

  “Andi,” a second warrior replied as he left his hiding place and joined them, saying T.J.’s words were true. “Nighthawk told me of his hungers before he left our camp and my father’s side.”

  T.J. smiled and nodded at Naiche, the second son of Cochise who had become chief after his father’s death, a blood chief who was being compelled to share his power with the notorious Geronimo. For the benefit of Geronimo and others, T.J. said, “I heard of our father’s death and it saddened my heart. He was a great leader.”

  Geronimo scoffed, “The white man forced him to a reservation, and it killed his spirit first and then his body. It is evil!” “Ntu’,” he stressed coldly and bitterly.

  “But he wished peace and survival for his people. It was wise.”

  “Naagundzu!” Geronimo shouted, meaning they were at war again.

  T.J. kept his attention on his blood brother. “It is bad to begin the raids and warfare again, Naiche. You must find a way to make peace so your people can survive, as our father wished. The whites are many and powerful. They will hunt down your people.”

  Geronimo stated belligerently, “The bluecoats try to corral and tame us like wild horses. They track us as animals!”

  “Because you prey on them as wolves after helpless sheep,” T.J. reasoned softly. “The white man is here to stay, so you must make peace or your tribe will perish under his advance and guns. He does not understand the Apache way; he must be taught to do so.”

  Carrie Sue intently observed the two Apaches closest to them. The younger one was nice-looking. His dark eyes were shiny and alert, filled with intelligence and courage, and noticeably lacked any glint of hatred and danger to her and her lover. The only thing which detracted from his looks was his slightly drooping right jawline which caused the left corner of his mouth to lift slightly as if he were always half-smiling. He was clad in a striped cotton shirt, tan breeches, a knee-length loin drape, and the distinctive leather boots which could be drawn over the knees to protect them against cactus and other prickly plants. A red cloth was rolled and tied around his black hair, making a sharp contrast in colors. It reminded her of Kale Rushton who was half-Apache and wore his black hair long and wore a red sash around his forehead. The other man was much different.

  He looked to be middle-aged, but it was hard to tell because his skin was so darkened by the Arizona sun. His features were nearly harsh, as was his piercing gaze. His hair, which was parted down the center of his head, only fell to his shoulders, unlike the long hair of the other Indians. His nose was large, very full at the bottom. His mouth appeared a mere slit across his face, a line which turned downward at both ends as if set in a permanent frown. Furrows cut into his forehead and between his brows, but she didn’t know if they were due to the sun’s glare or his ill-feelings toward them.

  Carrie Sue’s attention was drawn to the older man’s deep-set eyes beneath overhanging brows. They were small, and glittered with powerful emotions. His gaze and expression hinted at a man who was short-tempered, suspicious, tough, a man with an unyielding spirit and fierce courage. She didn’t need to be told this stocky man was Geronimo. She wished she could understand what the men were saying, but she didn’t know a word of Apache; Kale had never tried to teach her.

  Cochise’s second son and chief of this band of renegades said, “You know why we have taken to the warpath again, Nighthawk. They invaded our land and made us prisoners. They force those on the reservations to work for them as slaves. Women and children are given a metal penny to gather hay for their horses, but this white money buys little. We were told to gather piles of cottonwood and mesquite, but were allowed only small shares for our campfires. We were forced to make a line to claim rations of flour and beef as the treaty promised if we halted our raids. Seven days’ supply the Army said, but it was gone in four. Yet we were forbidden to hunt game on lands which have belonged to us since Grandfather made them. Men must dig holes in the body of Mother Earth to do what is called irrigation so we can grow evil things within her belly for the whiteman to eat. Apaches are not farmers and we do not care for such foods. If we refuse to cut into the earth, we have nothing to do but drink, gamble, and repeat tales of past glories. Many warriors have become scouts for the bluecoats so they can ride free. We grew restless and escaped.”

  T.J. inquired patiently, “What of Tom Jeffords, Naiche? Can you not trust him as our father did? Can you not make a new treaty with him for the sake of your people?”

  “The whites sent him away because he sided with us. Jeffords forced the whites to give us our sacred mountains as part of our reservation, but they have taken back their words and our lands. He was with my father before he left Mother Earth. They were friends. He is gone now and can no longer help us battle the evil whites.”

  T.J. knew that Cochise had died on the day and the hour he had told Indian agent Tom Jeffords he would. His people had painted his body yellow, black, and vermilion, had shrouded him in a red blanket, and had taken the chiefs body into the sacred mountains and buried it in a secret place where it would never be found.

  For the last two years, Jeffords had maintained peace, but Cochise’s death had made it difficult. When Geronimo and other leaders began raiding across the Mexican border, trouble had begun.

  T.J. hadn’t been in this area in some time, but he always found ways to keep up with the local events and the tribe which had raised him. He hated the thought of the Apaches being wiped out, but there was little he could do to help prevent what seemed to be their grim fate. For the past few months, things had gotten worse.

  The Mexican government had insisted that Jeffords and the American authorities halt the Apache raids in their country. One bitter incident in March had brought the conflict to a head. It had been rumored that the marauding Indians had stolen gold and silver along with horses and cattle. Two white men had sold the Indians whiskey and gotten them drunk so they would reveal where the treasure was hidden. When the Indians refused to comply and the treacherous whites wouldn’t give them more whiskey, the inebriated Indians had killed them. The taste of blood had brought back memories of olden times and sent the Apaches to raiding locally. Jeffords and the Army had tried vainly to capture the renegades and halt their attacks, and all Apaches had been blamed.

  In April the Arizona Citizen of Tucson had declared, “The kind of war needed for the Chiricahua Apaches is steady, unrelenting, hopeless, and undiscriminating war, slaying men, women, and children, until every valley and crest and crag and fastness shall send to high
heaven the grateful incense of festering and rotting Chiricahuas.” The outcry of the Arizonians and Governor Anson Safford had been heard in Washington, and Tom Jeffords had been fired. The decision had been made to dissolve the Chiricahua reservation and to transfer its people to the San Carlos Reservation which was shared by over four thousand Apaches of all tribes. Geronimo had gotten wind of the offensive plan and fled, enticing four hundred followers to do the same.

  T.J. had learned of Jeffords’s firing and the intent to move the reservation; he had protested both actions to the President, knowing how the Apaches would react. But Grant had many problems and pressures at the time and couldn’t relent to T.J.’s request, suggestions the special agent had known would prevent plenty of bloodshed on both sides. Now, it was too late to influence the President; war was on.

  “There is nothing more I can say to you, my brother. You must ride the path you know is best for Naiche. Will you allow us safe passage through your territory?”

  “Who is the woman?” Geronimo asked, staring up at her.

  “Kada’ultan,” T.J. replied, telling him Carrie Sue was a teacher. “Shiisdzaa,” he added, claiming she was “my woman.”

  Both Apache leaders looked her over again, making her nervous.

  “She must be brave and smart to be the woman of Nighthawk,” Naiche remarked. “We need more women. Is she for trade or sell?”