“Steger will bring them up to his place,” Mr. Roote said, but they didn’t seem convinced, especially Toole.
“My wife’s there with three little ’uns,” he said.
Mr. Roote sighed. “Don’t worry. The Injuns are all on the trail now. They know we’ll come after ’em, so they won’t be dallying. They’re ahead of us, and your family’s behind.”
“There’s more than one band of Apache,” Toole said stubbornly.
Carmela finished her biscuit and cheese and brushed the crumbs from her dress. She started to rise and take the food bag and water bottle back to her horse. Mr. Linnet tossed his apple core over his shoulder, and she followed its track, ending where a horse suddenly came into view over a ridge. Astride it sat a fierce-visaged Indian. She gasped.
Mr. Roote looked around to see what had startled her and reached for his revolver. The other men stiffened and got to their feet, most of them holding their hands at shoulder height. In a quick glance around, Carmela counted eight armed warriors.
Chapter Eighteen
The numbers were fairly even, Apache versus whites. Carmela’s chest squeezed so that she could hardly take in a breath.
This is it. We’re all going to die, just like Mr. Howard.
She thought of the derringer in her pocket, but pulling it out seemed like a bad idea when none of the men were going for their weapons. She would only ignite a battle if she produced it, and she would probably get some of them killed.
Her head whirled, and she felt as though she might pitch forward onto the rocks. The combination, she supposed, of the heat and the shock had caught up to her. Slowly she crumpled to her knees and sat down with her skirt billowing around her. Several of the Indian men eyed her curiously.
“You all right, miss?” Mr. Toole asked gruffly.
“I think so, yes. So far.”
Orland was on his feet, and he looked around at the riders. One of them moved his horse forward a few steps, and Orland stood facing him.
Carmela studied the Apache’s face. She couldn’t guess his age. He had rubbed wide swaths of charcoal on his cheeks below his eyes, and his long, loose hair was dazzlingly black in the sun. His pinto pony snuffled, and Carmela’s heart froze then pounded furiously.
She had last seen him by moonlight, but she was sure he was the man who had given her the water flask after the stagecoach holdup. Her lips trembled as his eyes swept over the group of white men and lingered on her. He made no sign of recognition but held her gaze for a long moment.
He spoke in his own language, and Orland looked helplessly to Butler, who stood beside him. “You savvy?”
“A little,” Butler said. “Not much. Something about a horse.”
The Apache man’s expression did not change, but he cupped his hand at his chest and said distinctly, “Two Pony.”
“You think that’s his name?” Orland asked, “Or does he want horses?”
“Dunno.” Butler cleared his throat and touched his own chest. “Butler.” He gestured toward the deputy. “Orland. Law man.” The badge on Orland’s shirt front was obvious to all, and Carmela wondered if the regal Apache warrior thought they were simpleminded.
To everyone’s surprise, he smoothly dismounted, dropped the rope by which he guided his horse, and walked toward Carmela. He looked into her face, and she could sense tension among the ranchers around her.
The warrior reached for her right hand, and then he held it up and examined her wrist.
“That’s enough, Mr. Two Pony,” Orland said, pulling out his revolver.
Carmela stopped breathing. Every Indian in the circle of horsemen trained his weapon on Orland.
The man before Carmela gave a low command, and they all lowered their guns and bows. He spoke to her in that odd language and traced a circle around her wrist with one finger.
“It’s all right,” Carmela said as loudly as she could manage. She could inhale now. “He’s asking about the first time we met. He is a friend.”
“You know this man?” Butler asked, stepping toward her. The Apaches’ weapons now focused on him.
“We’ve met,” she said.
“Was he part of the tribe that captured you?” Butler asked.
“No. He saved my life and Deputy McKay’s after the stagecoach robbery.” She looked up into Two Pony’s dark eyes. “Thank you.”
Two Pony’s lips twitched.
“If you know how to say ‘thank you’ in Apache, please tell him,” she called to Butler.
Butler swallowed hard and spoke a few words.
“Tell him ‘friend,’ ” she instructed.
Butler spoke again, and Two Pony nodded, still looking at her.
He spoke once more, and Butler’s eyebrows drew together.
“He said—I think he said—‘Where is your man?’ ”
Carmela felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “He means the deputy,” she said hastily. “Please tell him Mr. McKay lives. He is safe.”
Butler spoke haltingly and added a couple of hand signals for good measure.
Two Pony looked back at Carmela. “Good.” After a moment, he dropped her wrist and walked over to stand face-to-face with Butler.
He lapsed back into his native tongue, and this time Butler sighed in relief.
“He’s asking what we want.”
Carmela looked earnestly into the Apache’s eyes. How much did he really understand?
“We’re looking for a girl named Lucy Roote. This man’s daughter.” She placed a hand on Mr. Roote’s shoulder.
Again the Apache spoke.
“He says we should sit down and speak,” Butler said. “Wants to parley.”
“Then we should do it,” Orland said.
“No,” Roote cried. “What if it’s a trick? He could be stalling us so the others can get away with Lucy.”
“I don’t think so,” Carmela said. “He helped me and Mr. McKay when he didn’t have to. I trust this man.” She turned to Butler. “Tell him.”
Butler pointed at Carmela and spoke to Two Pony. “She says …” He paused for a moment then spoke Apache words and signed. He glanced apologetically at Carmela. “Sorry, I’m not real good at this.
I think I got that right.”
Carmela sincerely hoped so.
Two Pony gazed at her impassively then nodded.
“Good,” Orland said. “We’ll parley.”
Almost as weary as he’d been when he and Carmela staggered into Price’s station, Freeland hauled himself up the steps to Mrs. Finney’s boardinghouse. How had Carmela fared this past week? He wished he hadn’t had to abandon her, but Mrs. Finney seemed like the sort who would take care of a destitute girl.
The landlady opened the door a few inches, and her dour face matched her somber dress.
“Deputy. It’s about time.”
“Mrs. Finney. Is Miss Wade in?”
“No. She’s gone after the Apache with Deputy Orland.”
“What?” McKay mistrusted his ears. “I heard a posse went after a band that burned a ranch near here, but why on earth would Miss Wade go with them?”
Tears gleamed in Mrs. Finney’s eyes. “We didn’t know about the Howard ranch when she left. Mr. Roote came and asked her to go with him to try to get his daughter back.”
“Slow down,” Freeland said. “Who’s Mr. Roote?”
“You’d best come in. I expect you could stand a bowl of stew and a cup of coffee while I tell you what I know.”
Freeland followed her through to her overly warm kitchen. He took off his hat and laid it on the table and sat down. A mug of coffee and a bowl of beef stew appeared almost magically before him. The landlady took a few steps and came back with a spoon and a pan of cornpone.
“She’d talked to the girl once before. Lucy was a recovered captive. The Apache had her six months, and she said things like how she wanted to go back to them. Her parents didn’t know how to handle her. So when she ran off—at least, they think she ran off—Mr. Roote came here and as
ked Carmela to go along. He thought she could help persuade Lucy to come home.”
“I see.” Freeland ate while Mrs. Finney spilled the details of Carmela’s departure.
“And then we heard they’d hit the Howards’ ranch and killed Mr. Howard and stolen two more children.”
“When?”
“Early this morning.”
“So the posse hasn’t been gone long?”
“Eight hours, maybe.”
Freeland nodded. “The saloonkeeper pounced on the marshal as soon as we reached town. Duffield told us all to go get a meal and come back to ride with him. I thought I’d check on Miss Wade.”
“Well, she’s gone. I don’t know if Lucy’s with those savages or not, but the Howard children certainly are. But you and the marshal just got in. Are you really turning around and going after them?”
Freeland sighed. “We’ve got to.”
Mrs. Finney was silent for a moment. She sat down next to him. “What about your other errand? Did you get those outlaws?”
“Yes, and we recaptured my prisoner.”
“And Miss Wade’s uncle?”
“He’s alive but wounded. We brought him in and left him at the doctor’s office on Gurley Street.”
“Praise be,” Mrs. Finney said. “Although I don’t know how happy Miss Wade will be.”
Freeland eyed her sharply. “She told you her story.”
“She did. And she was about to make a public confession at church about the life that charlatan forced her to lead. Then this came up.”
Freeland pursed his lips as though to whistle and let out a long breath.
“She means no harm,” Mrs. Finney said. “But those Indians—they might see her and like the looks of her, too. Or the men in the posse might figure out she doesn’t really know anything about their way of life.”
“Oh, she knows a lot about it,” Freeland said. “But it’s book learnin’ mostly. She could land in a fix, all right. I’d best get going. The marshal will head out soon, and I’ll need to put my saddle on a fresh horse.”
“You’ll bring her back, won’t you, Mr. McKay?”
He clapped on his hat as she stood. “I’ll try my best, ma’am.”
She smiled. “You’ve got a pretty good record so far this week.”
Butler frowned and stared off toward the distant mountains, his eyes vacant.
Carmela was certain that Two Pony’s last remark had been directed at her, and she tried to be patient. Butler was doing the best he could.
Two Pony had insisted that Carmela sit on one side of him in the circle and Butler on the other. Beyond each of them sat an Apache man, and so it went around the circle, with alternate whites and Apache. Orland and two of the townsmen sat in on the parley, while the others stood back in a little knot, watching, their hands never far from their guns. Three more Apache stayed on their horses, watching everything, their stony faces revealing nothing.
Two Pony made hand signals to Carmela, and even before Butler gave his halting translation, she thought she understood his question.
“Do you want to go with them?” Butler asked. “That’s what he’s saying. He says go with your people.”
“I believe he might be asking if I want to go back to the tribe … the other tribe he calls my people.”
“Mojave,” Two Pony said distinctly.
She caught her breath. Uncle Silas had tried to copy genuine tribal tattoos, using a photograph of Miss Oatman. Perhaps he had done a better job than she’d thought. But she had always believed the Yavapai had put the markings on Miss Oatman’s face. It was true that the accounts she had read disagreed on what tribe the Oatman sisters had sojourned with, and they had been sold from one group to another after a winter with those who had killed the rest of the family.
“He wants to take you to the Mojave?” Butler frowned and looked at Orland.
“Is that who you were with before, Miss Wade?” Orland asked. Carmela hesitated. “To be honest, I’m not certain. I was very young and had never been in the West before.”
“Of course,” Orland said. “Back East, they think all the Injuns out here are either Apache, Pueblo, or Comanche.”
Two Pony spoke again.
Butler wore an expression of severe disapproval as he translated. “He says he will help his little sister.”
Stunned, Carmela looked into the warrior’s grave face. She reached a hand toward him but stopped short of touching his arm.
“Thank you. You have been very kind to me.” She waited for Butler to translate. “But no,” she continued, shaking her head. “I do not wish to go back. I will stay with my white people now.”
After a moment, Butler informed her, “He says you would be treated well. I think. He seems to think you’re family of his.”
Carmela frowned. Perhaps this man had kinfolk in the Mojave tribe. She spoke with care, not wanting to disappoint him but also not wishing to give the impression that she preferred the Indian life.
“You gave me water when I needed it. You kept me alive. Kept my friend alive, too. I will never forget that. But I do not wish to go back to the people. I have come only to search for my friend Lucy Roote.”
Butler stumbled to find the words to express her meaning, but Two Pony cut him off with a quick motion of his hand.
Carmela quaked inside as she waited. The Apache man gazed into her eyes for a long moment, making her want to shrink and hide. He and his friends might be able to overpower the posse of white men if they wanted to. He could force her to go with them.
Two Pony tipped his head back and gave a quick order. One of the Apache still on horseback turned his gray mount and loped off, soon out of sight in the rugged terrain.
“What?” Orland asked Butler softly. “What’s happening?”
“Not sure,” Butler murmured.
They sat in uneasy silence. The Apache in the circle did not seem worried, but Carmela’s skin prickled and she felt she might faint. Was Two Pony truly her friend?
A few minutes later, she heard the muted thud of unshod hooves on the rocks. The gray horse hove into view, its black mane tossing as it jogged toward them. Around the Apache man’s waist, slender hands gripped him. He brought the horse close to the circle, and a girl in a moss-green dress slid down the horse’s flank.
Mr. Roote sprang up and bolted to her, enfolding her in his arms before Lucy could even turn around. She gave a little scream but fell silent as she turned and gazed into her father’s face.
“You’re safe, my love,” Mr. Roote said. “We’ve come to take you home.”
Lucy’s lips trembled. She looked up at the Apache who had brought her to the circle and spoke to him in Apache.
Carmela and the others who had sat for the parley stood and moved toward the horses. They paused when Two Pony approached Lucy and Mr. Roote. He looked down at the girl and spoke to her in Apache. Lucy answered him earnestly, seemingly comfortable with the language.
“What’d she say?” Orland asked Butler.
“I’m not sure.”
Lucy looked up at her father. “These people know the band I was with.”
“Then they’re not the ones who took you the first time?”
“No, but they are friends. Relatives. They can take me to them.”
Mr. Roote’s jaw clenched. “Lucy, dearest, you cannot go back to them. We need you at home. Your mother’s heart is breaking, child. You must come home.”
Tears welled in Carmela’s eyes, and her throat constricted. Silently she pleaded with God for right to be done. She blinked against the burning tears. When she focused again on Lucy, the girl was looking at her.
“Carmela!” Lucy left her father’s side and hurried forward. She seized Carmela’s hand. “Can you help me?”
“Help you?” Carmela asked. “I don’t know what you want of me. I came to help your father plead his cause. Lucy, surely you don’t mean to go back to the tribe?”
Lucy looked toward the Apache and back to Carmela. �
�I … I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you not love your parents and your brother and sisters?”
“I … suppose I do. But with the tribe I am a woman.”
“Yes,” Carmela said. “No doubt they will marry you off soon. Do you think you can choose a man among them who will be kind to you? One who will keep you fed and warm in winter? One who will treat you with respect? Your father would never give you to a man who would mistreat you.”
Lucy’s mouth quivered as she looked at her father and Two Pony, standing close to each other, waiting for her decision.
“I know it is hard in the winter, but they haven’t starved.”
“Haven’t they?” Carmela asked. “A week ago, I sat at the governor’s table. I heard stories about the Pima and the other tribes in this area. They are in dire circumstances. The Indian agent had to feed them all winter, and it wasn’t enough food. Lucy, why do you think the Apache steal the white men’s cattle? Because they are hungry. Look at them. Do you see any fat people among the tribes?”
“But …” Lucy pulled in a shaky breath.
“And the people who stole you. Did you love them so much? Did you make closer friends than your own sisters? Did they truly treat you with love? Or were they just keeping you alive to help with the work of gathering food? Did you dig roots all day? Did you help dry meat the men killed? I can’t believe you had a soft life with the tribe. Maybe as a child, but as you say, you’re a woman now in their eyes. You will do the women’s work. And I know—it’s not a lark. You will work hard. And yes, you will be hungry. Perhaps not this summer but soon. I don’t say the white people are always right in the way they treat the Indians, but the tribes’ day is waning. They cannot prevail or drive the whites out of their land.”
Lucy lowered her gaze.
“Lucy.” Carmela stooped and touched the girl’s wrist until Lucy looked her in the eyes. “Stay with the people who truly love you, my dear. Your father risked his life to come after you. He would do anything for you. Come home and give yourself a chance to grow up before you’re shoved into womanhood. Give yourself time to learn and grow. Time to decide what is really freedom.”
My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains Page 18