Apache Caress (12 page)

Tom Mooney sipped his coffee and listened. Somewhere a baby cried, and its mother soothed it with soft Apache words. Dogs barked, and the sounds echoed in the sultry Arizona night. Forester had admitted his guilt, but he had not mentioned any accomplice in those last minutes and Tom had never told Cholla about the paper candy sack. Suppose Gill was innocent and Cholla wouldn’t listen to any explanation?

“Cholla, things are changing. You know that, and your people must change, too. That is why you ride with the Army. Outlaws like Geronimo will only get women and children on both sides killed by trying to return to the old ways that are no more.”

Cholla shook his head. “Why is it we must conform, be just like whites or be considered worthless? Sometimes, late at night, I think of going across the border, into the mountains with my dog and my horse. That’s wild country down there. A man could live out his lifetime in the Sierra Madres as wild and free as his ancestors. I could live off the land.”

“It would be a lonely life,” Tom said.

“Aren’t we both lonely, brother?” Cholla’s hand paused and trembled as he patted the dog. “Somewhere maybe there is a woman who would go with me and never look back.”

“I hope you find her,” Tom said, and threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “If she’s out there, I hope you find her. If you do, see if she has a sister for me.”

The Apache laughed. “Don’t worry, if I ever find a woman I think is right for you, you can be sure I’ll deliver her to you as a gift.”

Tom grinned. “You do that.”

Cholla stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts and maybe bothered by the fact that he was part of this trek, no matter that he was under orders and that in the end it was for the best. The Apache were to be “civilized” and educated, taught skills other than hunting and raiding.

Throughout the campgrounds, a chorus of dogs began to bark but though his ragged ears went up, Ke-’jaa did not bark. While he might snarl, he never barked. A barking dog endangered its master.

The strangely marked stallion whinnied at the racket made by hundreds of howling dogs and pulled restlessly at its picket pin.

Cholla looked up at the beautiful black and white paint and reassured him. “It’s all right, boy.”

“I never did hear how you came by that horse,” Tom said.

“See the Medicine Hat coloring?” Cholla gestured. “That coloring is thought lucky by many tribes. My friends, the Randolph family out at the Wolfs Den ranch, raise these horses and they gave me this one. His ancestor was a wild Medicine Hat stallion called Sky Climber that roamed the hills of Nevada for many years.”

The stallion’s coloring is unusual, Tom thought. The large spot on its chest truly looked like a war shield, and the top of its head was black, making it seem as if the horse wore a black cap.

They bedded down for the night. If Tom had known what Colonel Wade’s secret orders were, he would have warned Cholla; he would have warned all the scouts so they could escape.

Tom was a battle-hardened veteran, but he was horrified on that hot September day when the soldiers were ordered to force all the Apaches onto the trains.

“Sir, what about their things?” Tom had protested to Lieutenant Gillen. “What about their blankets and all that stuff? What about their horses and dogs?”

Gillen grinned and popped a peppermint in his mouth. “Blast it! Our orders are to load Apaches, nothing else. Be reasonable, Sergeant, you don’t really think we could ship all that stuff across the country, especially all those damned dogs? Where they’re going, they don’t need horses.”

Cholla shook his head. “You may throw me out of the Army or shoot me, Lieutenant, but I want no part of this. There’s not enough room, and the windows are nailed shut.”

“We can hardly have the red bastards escaping now, can we, scout?”

“But it’s going to be sweltering, Lieutenant, and some of these people have never even seen a train before. They’ll be terrified.”

Gillen’s face flushed an angry red. “These savages have tortured and killed white people. My buddy is rotting in a shallow grave because of these bloodthirsty bastards! You think I care what happens to them?”

Mooney glanced around. Even as the three argued, black soldiers began loading the Indians on the train. They and their white officers had their orders.

Ironic, Tom thought in that split second, the blacks, who have just been freed from slavery, are taking part in enslaving the red people.

When women hesitated, soldiers yanked children from their arms, threw them on the train. The women followed their youngsters onto the cars, sobbing. Old people had their few precious possessions pulled from their arms and dumped next to the track as the soldiers used rifles butts to herd them, like cattle, into the ears.

Hundreds of dogs ran about in the confusion, yelping and howling, trying to follow their Apache masters into the cars, only to be chased away by soldiers.

Surrounded by the weeping of children and the howling of dogs, Tom looked around in sudden dismay. More soldiers had appeared. They were jerking the Indian scouts off their ponies, dragging them onto the trains.

“No!” Tom shouted. “These are friendly braves–see the red headbands? These are the scouts who helped us! There must be some mistake!”

“See the colonel! We got our orders!” the soldiers shouted back.

“Cholla, I’ll find the colonel, see if I can find out what’s going on!” Tom dismounted, pushed through the crowd.

His blue uniform seemed plastered to his body by sweat and dust as he searched frantically for the officer in charge. Everyone kept directing him to someone else. Behind him, the soldiers had disarmed most of the scouts and were loading them bodily onto trains. It took four men to pull the big scout, Cholla, off the rearing stallion. Tom looked back as he ran through the jostling crowd. Ke’jaa snarled and snapped at the soldiers, trying to protect his master as they dragged Cholla off the horse, chained him.

Mooney turned and ran back through the crowd toward the train. Most of the Indians were aboard now; he could see their frightened faces through the dirty windows that wouldn’t open to allow a breath of air in this September heat. The stench and the noise and the dust seemed to swirl around him. “Stop! You can’t do this! This man is a government scout! There’s been a mistake!”

But Gillen signaled the soldiers to drag Cholla on board. The dog tried to bite him, and he kicked at it and swore. “Sergeant! Stop interfering with our orders or I’ll have your stripes!”

“But, Lieutenant–”

“If you don’t like it, find the colonel and file a complaint.”

“
Sikis
... brother,” Cholla shouted at him, “get to Crook–he’ll help us. Save my dog and my horse–”

Gillen clubbed him down then, and the soldiers dragged him into the car.

This couldn’t be happening. Sergeant Mooney stood on the platform, trying to hold onto the frantic dog as it struggled to follow its master on board. The engine blew a warning, and then its wheels began to turn. Smoke billowed from the stack as the engineer signaled his crew.

Screams echoed from the train. Then it shuddered and jerked, started to move. Mooney looked back at the brown, frightened faces pressed against the glass. Some of these people had never even seen a train before and were terrified of the noise and movement.

It was all Mooney could do to hold on to the frantic dog as the train moved slowly out of the station. Hundreds of dogs set up a hellish racket as if they realized they were being left behind. Dozens of the animals ran alongside the cars, barking and trying to board. Big dogs, small dogs, half-wild, some a mix of coyote or wolf.

“Holy Saint Patrick!” Tom whispered under his breath, in horror. General Crook. Yes, he must reach Crook. Tom would tell Gatewood what had happened, and Gatewood would contact Crook. Even as he stood on the platform looking after the train, it cleared the station and began to pull away, the frantic dogs running after it, not understanding why they had been left behind.

Ke’jaa turned his muzzle suddenly and bit Tom’s hand. “Sonovagun! You ornery–!” But the dog was off and chasing after the train.

Mooney ran back to the horses. They were milling about, some of them dragging their reins. Blankets and bundles of food lay in the dust, where the Indians had dropped them in the shuffle. He mounted his horse, took off after the train at a gallop. Tom had promised his friend, his brother, he would save his dog.

The train gained speed as it headed east. At Albuquerque, it would turn north along the mountains toward Colorado. Black smoke hung on the air behind it. Dozens of frantic dogs, their tongues hanging out from exhaustion, still ran alongside or behind the train, barking as if asking why they had been left behind, who was to look after them.

One after another, they tired and dropped back, lay panting along the track. Mooney kept riding. In the distance, he saw Ke’jaa still loping alongside the train as it picked up speed. To reach Cholla, the dog would run itself to death.

Mooney finally caught up with Ke’jaa as the dog slowed. By now his horse was lathered and snorting. How many miles? Five? Ten? The train had turned into a black spot on the horizon and was finally swallowed up all together.

“Ke’jaa, you sonovagun! Come back here!”

The dog hesitated at the sound of its name, almost staggering with weariness. Its red ribbon of tongue hung out over great fangs, and its chest heaved so that Mooney could see its ribs as it breathed.

“Ke’jaa, come to me, boy. Come to me!” He dismounted, yelled and whistled at the big mongrel.

The dog turned and stared at him, looked after the train and tried to take another step. Then it collapsed and lay in the rough brush as if dead.

Holy Saint Patrick
. Mooney cursed as he reached for his canteen. He had to save the dog. Cholla would be back when this mess was straightened out. Tom bent and poured a little water over the dog’s muzzle. Then he took off his bandanna, wet it and wiped the dog down while the nearly dead animal snarled at him. “I know, you lop-eared cur, but I promised!”

The dog was too large to lift. It took Tom awhile to get the dog back on its feet so it could follow him to the station on uncertain legs. It kept looking back toward the horizon that had swallowed the train that bore his master away. Tom would have tried to throw it across his saddle and carry it, but he knew Ke’jaa wouldn’t let him do that, even if he could lift him. He felt as angry and confused as the dog, but there was nothing he could do until he went through the chain of command.

Tom Mooney remembered all that now as he paused before the office door, rapped sharply.

“Come in.”

He entered, forgetting for a split second that the dog was with him. Ke’jaa came through the door too, before he closed it and turned to salute Gatewood.

“At ease, Sergeant, glad to see you. I see you still have the scout’s dog.” The tall officer leaned back in his chair, rubbed his prominent nose.

“Yes, sir. Cholla was my friend. It was the least I could do.”

“I wish I could do something more to help. . . .” The soft-spoken officer paused.

Too ethical to criticize the new leadership, Tom thought. He liked the gentle, brave Gatewood whom the Apaches called Bay-chen-daysen; Long Nose. He liked him much better than the favored Captain Lawton or the Army doctor, Leonard Wood, who seemed so ambitious to move up.

Gatewood frowned, looking down at the paper under his hand. “This came over the telegraph from Saint Louis; the brass has been trying to keep it quiet for several weeks, but it’s leaked out.”

“Sir?”

“Cholla managed to get off that train somewhere east of the Mississippi.”

“Holy Saint Patrick!” It took everything in him not to throw his hat in the air and cheer. Then Tom remembered himself and came to attention.

“He hasn’t got a chance; we both know that.” Gatewood unfolded his lanky frame, rising from his chair. He put his hands behind his back and paced up and down. “Lieutenant Gillen’s in charge of recapturing the fugitive.”

Tom’s heart sank. “He’ll kill him, given. the chance.”

“I know.” Gatewood rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There’s a ‘dead or alive’ order out on the scout.”

This time, Tom couldn’t suppress a groan. The dog looked up at the sound.

“Since you two were close friends, I thought I’d let you know.” Gatewood gave him a long, searching look. Doubtless he had heard the rumors about what had happened at the ambush site from Gillen, but no one could prove anything without a witness and the other three soldiers had backed Mooney and Cholla.

“I’m much obliged, sir. If there’s any news . . .”

“I will. You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

Mooney saluted smartly, turned, and went out, the dog pushing ahead of him. Outside, Tom turned and looked toward the east. Fifteen hundred miles.
Too far
.
Too damned far
. But Cholla was a man who lived on the edge, accepted risks every day. He was not going to conform, he would rebel.

The scout had been treated dishonorably, chained and thrown on that train like a criminal when he had done nothing to merit such a terrible injustice. Tom knew his Apache brother would rather die than to be sent to Florida. If he were alive, the big scout was already headed back across fifteen hundred miles to the land he loved.

The sunrise had never looked so beautiful to Tom before, all gold and purple and pink. He wasn’t sure whether he felt a need to reassure the dog ... or himself. “Ke’jaa, if anyone can do it, Cholla can.”

For the first time in many years, Sergeant Tom Mooney bent his head reverently and said a prayer to Saint Christopher, patron saint of those who travel.

When Sierra awakened before dawn, Cholla was staring down into her eyes. She wished she knew what went on behind that stoic face. Then she remembered last night, and her own face burned. How could she have behaved like such a wanton?

But of course it’s all part of my plan, she told herself as she got up without speaking, bustled about fixing them a bit of food. Since she had let him make love to her, no doubt he would let his guard down. Maybe she would yet have a chance to use those scissors.

Cholla frowned and rubbed the back of his neck as he finished his coffee. “If that
hombre
did go for help, there may be someone on our trail. We’d be wise to abandon the wagon, just take what we can carry in backpacks and use some isolated trails, stay off the roads.”

The scissors
. They would be left in the abandoned trunk. “If we do that,” she said, “we’ll have to leave a lot of things behind. The traveling won’t be nearly as comfortable.”

He gave her a wry look as he stood up. “I’ve got the whole U.S. Cavalry and armed citizens looking for me and you talk about ‘comfort’?” Then he seemed to reconsider. “Oh, of course. I should have realized you’d have attachments to some of your personal things. Very well, Dark Eyes, we’ll keep the wagon at least another day, but with all these hills, we would be better off to take to the foot trails.”

Sierra waited for him to make some snide, crude comment about how much she had pleasured him, but he only looked at her a long moment. Had she pleasured him? Maybe he had had other women who’d given him more enjoyment. Hadn’t Robert often taunted her with how awkward and unlearned she was at making love?

As the Apache packed up the camp, Sierra took her long hair down, brushed it. When she looked up, he was watching her. “Leave it down,” he said. “I like it that way; sort of wild- and abandoned-looking, the kind of hair a man wants to tangle his hands in.”

Very pointedly, she ignored him, put her hair back up in a prim bun at the back of her neck. Maybe last night she had been the kind of woman the scout spoke of, but that wasn’t the real Sierra. The real Mrs. Robert Forester was prim, restrained, conforming.

“Sierra, you defy me?”

For a moment, she almost backed down, then realized that might be admiration in his dark eyes. He must like women with a bit of flint to them. Flint and steel create sparks, she thought, remembering their wild, tempestuous coupling on the creek bank. Her face burned with the memory, but she only raised her chin. “It’s my hair; I’ll wear it as I please!”

He didn’t answer as they broke camp. They pushed forward hard all day, putting many miles behind them. They were deep into wooded hills now, pine and blackjack, scrubby pin oak and wild bois d’arc with its bright green seed pods as big as apples.

Cholla grunted with satisfaction when he found a bois d’arc sapling. “I hear this is what the Plains tribes call Osage orange and make bows from. I don’t have many cartridges for this rifle, I’d better plan on making myself a bow.”

Taking out the butcher knife, he hacked off several branches, threw them in the wagon.

They traveled until dark, when they pulled off at a fresh water spring and camped. He sat by the fire working on the bow while Sierra cooked a rabbit he had snared.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll go on afoot. I think we’re on the northeastern edge of the Indian Territory, maybe.”

More Indians
. “Will those Indians take you in and help you?”

He laughed. “Hardly! The tribes there are not friends of the Apaches, but then, I doubt they are too happy with whites right now. Gossip around the fort said the government in Washington was thinking about taking some of the land away from the Indians and giving it to white farmers.”

“I thought Indian Territory belonged to the tribes as long as the grass grew and the rivers ran?”

He gave her a long look. “Whites have a habit of making promises they don’t keep. That’s why I was on my way to Florida, chained up like an animal.”

He is a proud man, she thought. Perhaps the loss of pride and dignity meant even more to him than the loss of freedom.

Once they got deep into Indian Territory, who knew what might happen to her? And if they were going to abandon the wagon tomorrow, she’d better take her chances on killing him tonight. How would be the best way to do that? Keen as his senses were, she could hardly slip up on him in the dark. And if she wasn’t careful and only wounded him rather than killing him, there was no telling what terrible retribution he’d inflict. She thought of all the stories she had heard about Indian torture and shuddered.

“What’s the matter?”

She glanced up, saw him staring at her. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I saw you shiver. Are you cold?”

“Maybe I am at that. I’ll get an extra blanket from the wagon.”
What a perfect excuse!
Sierra went to the wagon, climbed in, dug out another blanket. Under it, she carried the pair of scissors hidden in the folds of her skirt. She spread the blanket near the fire. “I suppose I am a little chilly. The nights are getting a bit cold as autumn comes on.”

“Soon we’ll be farther south and maybe we’ll outrun the weather.”

“How do you intend to do that?” She lay down on the blanket, the scissors hidden by her side.

He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “There’s bound to be a train through Indian Territory–maybe a freight train. If we could catch a ride in a boxcar, we could go a long way in a short time.”

Sierra shivered again. “I really am a little cold. We might as well conserve the heat and share blankets.”

“You sure?”

She couldn’t meet his penetrating gaze. “After last night, it’s not as if we were on formal terms.”

“I didn’t force myself on you,” he reminded her softly.

“All right, so I behaved like a mare in heat,” Her face turned bright red.

“I didn’t say that.” He brought his blanket, spread it next to hers. “If you’re regretting it–”

“I’m your captive and you’ll do with me what you wish,” Sierra snapped. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Go to sleep. We’ve got a lot of traveling tomorrow.” He closed his eyes.

She had expected him to demand her body, and she’d planned to stab him during the act when he least expected it. She felt the scissors cold and hard under her hand. Did she dare try to stab him in the chest?

No, alert as he was, he’d come awake as her hand came down, grab her wrist. She had to get him on top of her so she could put those scissors deep in his back.

Sierra turned over on her side, toward him. She pressed her breasts up against him. Then, almost as if she made the gesture in her sleep, she threw an arm across his body. In his sleep, he turned toward her, pulled her against the heat of him. She waited for something to happen, but he really did seem to be sleeping. Maybe it was like Robert said, maybe she wasn’t very desirable. Should she risk stabbing him? She was afraid to take the chance.

Sierra rubbed her breasts against his arm, tilted her pelvis so that her body touched his all the way down. He was awake now. She felt him come alert, the maleness of him harden.

“Sierra?”

She didn’t answer, pretended to be asleep, but she rubbed against him again. His mouth found hers and she relaxed her lips, let him probe inside with the tip of his tongue, then gradually sucked his tongue deep into her mouth as her hand slipped inside his shirt to stroke his nipples. His hand, fumbling with the bodice of her dress, felt hot as it cupped her breast.

Sierra gasped at the sensation. She had forgotten how good his hands felt as he tantalized her nipples. Then he pushed up her skirts. She wasn’t wearing any underthings.

His palm felt hot on her bare thigh. She opened his pants. His manhood was hard and hot and throbbing in her grasp. He undid the front of her bodice. With his teeth nibbling around her teats, Sierra forgot about her plan–about anything but the ache thudding in her belly. She pressed her breasts against his lips, wanting him to take them deep in his mouth, suck them raw until she couldn’t stand the sensation one more instant. She dug her nails into his wide shoulders.

She wanted him. That surprised her after all the times she had lain on her back, cold, unresponsive, letting Robert use her while she thought of other things.

Sierra pulled him on top of her, her heart thudding so hard, he must feel it under his mouth.

“You surprise me,” Cholla whispered.

“I surprise myself,” she answered truthfully and opened her thighs for his thrusting. He was built big, and she felt every inch of him as he thrust in her, faster and harder each time.

Her hand went to find the scissors. She kept her mind on what she intended to do as his passion built. At the moment he reached the zenith of his pleasure, she grasped the scissors, hesitated a split second as she brought them down.

Out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen the movement, because he dodged ever so slightly and the sharp blades cut his shoulder a glancing blow.

“You white bitch! Try to kill me, will you?” He slapped her. Scarlet dripped down his arm and chest. “You want blood? You got blood!” He wiped his blood across her breasts and rolled off her. Then he grabbed the scissors, threw them into the brush.

Too terrified to move, Sierra lay there, breathing hard, her ears ringing, his warm, scarlet blood smeared across her naked breasts. Merciful heavens, now he will kill me, she thought, since I failed to kill him.

But he was too intent on his injury to notice her. Swearing mightily, Cholla tore away part of her skirt, wrapped it around his arm. “I should have known better! I should have known it was an act! You lie just like the other whites!”

“What did you expect?” she stormed back at him. “You kidnap me, drag me across Missouri, scared for my life-”

“By Usen, I’ll know better next time!” he raged. “And to think I was beginning to–”

“Beginning to what?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Forester! Nothing!”

“How do you know my name?” She was on her feet now, half-naked, smeared with his blood and shouting. Her nerves had been stretched too taut by everything that had happened over the past few days. She didn’t care anymore if he killed her. She expected that sooner or later anyway, and she was weary of the tension.

“You told me,” he said. “Remember?” He looked up from his bandaging.

Had she? She couldn’t remember. Should she try to run for the woods again? He was swift as a bobcat and had the stamina of a mountain goat. He’d only hunt her down. She stood, watching him finish the bandaging, waiting.

He got up, grabbed her arm, twisted her hands behind her. “I’ll know better next time.”

“Next time?” She almost spat the words at him. “Go ahead and kill me. I expect it!”

“And waste a good hostage?” His mouth twisted into a hard, mirthless grin. “I need you, Sierra, in case I get trapped somewhere. I don’t think white soldiers will shoot at a human shield, especially a pretty one like you.”

She struggled, but he tied her up anyhow. This is what I get for taking chances, Sierra thought miserably as she lay down on the grass and watched Cholla spread out blankets by the fire. If she’d been obedient and done exactly as she was told, he might have freed her by now. Grandfather had warned her about having the attitude of her mother. She vowed right then and there that if she escaped this ordeal alive, she would take a job somewhere and blend into the masses, conform as Grandfather had urged.

Cholla slept peacefully enough it seemed, but Sierra didn’t get much rest. The next morning, he dug through their things, made two backpacks of the barest kind of necessities, and turned the old mule loose in the lush, wild grasslands nearby. As he had already pointed out, the mule needed a good rest before it could go any farther, and old as it was, it deserved its freedom.

He dug through the trunks. “I guess we have everything we can use.” He picked up the photo of Robert. “Don’t you want this?”

So he had seen the photo. She thought about his question a minute, shook her head. She was tired of being a hypocrite, even though she still hated the Indians for widowing her and leaving her defenseless in the world. “He never even bought me a wedding ring; that’s how little he cared.”

He gave her a long, searching look. “All right then, come on.” He jerked his head toward the south. “We’ll hike through the hills, and maybe somewhere along the way, we’ll find a train or maybe a good horse.”

“You don’t have anything to trade those Indians for a good horse.”

He looked her up and down. “Don’t I?”

She trembled at the thought. “Aren’t you going to untie me?”

“And risk getting killed again? You can walk with your hands tied behind you.” His tone was curt as he pushed her ahead of him on the trail.

There was nothing to do but start walking. With her hands tied behind her, however, her balance wasn’t very good. And when a fly lit on her nose, she couldn’t brush it off. Besides that, as the day progressed, her arms began to ache from being tied. But Sierra decided she could be as stubborn as he was. If he expected her to beg, he was going to be very disappointed. All day they traveled toward the south, through oaks and walnuts that were already turning flame red and gold and russet with the coming autumn.

Twice she stumbled and fell, and strong hands reached out, hauled her to her feet, pushed her forward. Along about dark, she began to balk. “I can’t walk much farther.” She sank to the trail, but his big hand yanked her upright. “You
will
walk.”

His voice had such a hard edge that it scared her. Whatever softness toward her she had sensed in this man was gone now.

“If I reach the point where I just can’t go any farther, are you going to put a bullet between my eyes and leave my body where it falls?”

A look of anguish came to his rugged features for a split second, and then his face became inscrutable again. She wondered about it a moment, then decided she had been mistaken. There was nothing weak or sensitive about this man–not now, not ever. She had begun to think of him as a human being. Well, she had been a fool. He was nothing but a fierce, heartless savage.