Apache Flame (14 page)

The warriors dismounted a few feet from the body. Leaving
their horses, they searched the ground for sign, nodding and talking rapidly.

“Comanches,” Elk Chaser told Mitch. He held up both hands,
fingers spread. “At least ten of them. They rode off that way,” he said,
pointing toward the south. “They have taken whoever was riding with this man.”

“How long ago?” Mitch asked.

“Late yesterday.”

Mitch nodded, feeling a wave of pity for the man who had
survived. Either he would be forced into slavery, or tortured to death. Looking
at the body, Mitch decided the dead man was the better off of the two.

Satisfied that there was no longer any danger, the warriors
vaulted onto the backs of their horses.

Mitch looked at Elk Chaser. “You’re not going to bury him?”

Elk Chaser shook his head. Like all Apache, he had a great
horror of the dead. The Apaches buried their own as soon as possible, and
always during the day. Interment was in a cave or crevice if such a place was
available; otherwise, they buried their loved ones in the earth, covering the
grave with brush and dirt and rocks to keep coyotes and other predators away.

Mitch had seen such burial mounds from time to time. He
watched as Elk Chaser mounted his horse and started to ride after the others.
It seemed a shame to leave a body lying in the desert to rot, but he had little
choice. He had nothing with which to dig a hole, nothing to cover the body
with.

He was about to turn away when he heard a low moan.
Frowning, he nudged the body in the side with the toe of his moccasin. And the
body twitched.

Muttering an oath, Mitch rolled the man over, and found
himself looking into a pair of pain-glazed brown eyes.

“Damn, you’re alive.”

“Water…”

“Elk Chaser,” Mitch called. “He’s alive.”

Moments later, the warriors were gathered around the wounded
man. The boys stood together in the background, pointing and whispering.

The warrior known as Kills Twice grunted softly. “Let us
kill the
pinda-lick-o-ye
, and go.”

Fear flickered in the eyes of the wounded man, and he
reached out toward Mitch. “Help…me…” he gasped, and then went limp.

“
Duunndil’edida
!” Elk Chaser exclaimed. “Do not be
foolish. He will not be welcome there.”

“Well, hell, I can’t just leave him out here to die.” Mitch
glanced at Kills Twice. “Or to be killed.”

“He is the enemy. It is the Apache way to kill their
enemies.” Kills Twice smiled. “
Usen
has delivered him into our hands.
Let us finish him now and move on.”

Mitch’s gaze locked with that of Kills Twice. “I’m taking
him back to camp.”

Kills Twice stared at him a moment, then shrugged. Calling
to his son, Kills Twice swung onto his horse’s back and rode away. The other
warriors followed.

“You must blindfold him when you are near the entrance to
the
rancheria
,” Elk Chaser said.

“I will.”

“There are many who will be angry because of this. The Blue
Coats killed four of our men and two of our women this past winter.”

Mitch nodded. “I understand.”

Elk Chaser clapped him on the shoulder, then mounted his
horse and followed the others.

Muttering an oath, Mitch knelt beside the man and broke off
the shafts of both arrows so that only a few inches remained protruding from
the wounds, then he lifted the unconscious man and laid him face-down over the
saddle. Vaulting onto the horse’s rump, he reached forward and picked up the
reins. Riding behind the saddle was not the most comfortable place to ride, to
be sure, but it beat the hell out of walking.

* * * * *

It was late afternoon when they reached the entrance to the
rancheria.
The wounded man hadn’t regained consciousness but, remembering Elk Chaser’s
stern admonition, Mitch removed his headband and used it to blindfold the man.

When he reached the top of the narrow trail, he called to
the warriors guarding the entrance, then made his way into the encampment.

Everyone he passed turned to stare at the body draped over
the saddle, only to turn away when they saw it was not one of their own.

Mitch found his mother sitting in the shade in front of her
lodge, sewing. She looked up, astonishment flickering in her eyes, when she saw
the man sprawled face down across his saddle.

“He needs help,” Mitch said. Dismounting, he slung the
unconscious man over his shoulder and carried him into his mother’s lodge.

White Robe looked after Mitch’s horse, then entered the
lodge. She quickly stirred the coals in the fire and tossed in a handful of
sweet grass to purify the air.

Knowing he would only be in the way, Mitch stood back while
his mother examined the wounds.

“Come,” she said. “You must hold him down while I remove the
arrows.”

Mitch knelt in front of the man, his hands firmly planted on
the man’s shoulders, while his mother straddled the man’s legs. She removed the
arrow in his arm first, electing to push it all the way through rather than try
to draw it out. She quickly washed the wound, packed the holes with green tree
moss, bound the arm in a strip of cotton cloth.

The arrow in the man’s back had to be cut out. Even
unconscious, the man thrashed and moaned as she worked the head of the arrow
from his back. When the arrowhead had been removed, she washed and bandaged the
wound as she had the other one, then stood up.

“I will make broth. He will need lots of liquid to replace
the blood he has lost. If he lives.”

“
Ashoge, Shi ma,”
Mitch said. Rising, he gave his
mother a kiss on the cheek. Thank you, my mother.

Leaving the lodge, Mitch walked down to the river. Squatting
on his heels, he watched the water splash and tumble over the rocks, his
thoughts on the white man. Who was he? What was he doing out here? He looked
vaguely familiar. Someone he’d seen on the streets of Canyon Creek, maybe.

He grunted softly, the thought of Canyon Creek bringing
Alisha quickly to mind. He should have taken the time to tell her goodbye, he
mused ruefully. Wished her well in her forthcoming marriage.

Picking up a rock, he hurled it into the river, watching the
ripples spread out in ever-widening circles. He should have just grabbed her
and run. Let her scream and holler all she wanted about promises and honor. She
had promised to marry him long before she became engaged to that pretty boy
Smithfield. What did Smithfield know about her? Had he been the one to hold
Alisha and comfort her when her mother died? Had he been the one Alisha had
always turned to for comfort? Had Smithfield taught her to swim, watched her
grow from a little girl into a beautiful young woman? Dammit, why hadn’t he
stayed and fought for her? He had never given up on anything he wanted in his
life. He wanted Alisha Faraday and by damn, he was going to go back and fight
for her. When the wounded man could travel, he would take him to Canyon Creek,
and then he’d find Alisha and make her admit the truth—that she loved him, not
Smithfield.

He grinned, pleased with the thought of carrying her away.
He should have done it long ago. She could protest all she wanted, he thought,
but he would make her happy. She would forget about Smithfield soon enough.
He’d see to that.

He imagined what it would be like to spend the night with
Alisha at his side, to see her face first thing in the morning, hear her
whisper his name in the quiet of the night.
Mitchy
. No one else had ever
called him that. He had always claimed he hated it but the truth was, he had
always loved it. And her.

* * * * *

The stranger was awake when Mitch entered the wickiup.

“Obliged to ya,” the man said as he struggled to sit up. He
groaned softly. “Damned Comanch. What the hell was they doin’ so far from home
anyways.” He offered Mitch his hand. “Red Clements.”

Mitch shook the man’s hand. “Mitch Garret.” He sat down.
“Sorry about your friend.”

“My friend!” Clements exclaimed. A look of horror passed
over his face. “The woman! Lord in heaven, they got the woman.”

Mitch felt a sudden sense of trepidation. “What woman?”

“I was guidin’ a pretty lil’ gal. She paid me fifty bucks to
bring her to the ‘Paches.” Clements threw off the blanket and tried to stand
up. He swore as he fell back on the blankets. “I’ve got to go after her.”

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

“Got to. Damn!”

“Who was she?” Mitch asked, his stomach clenching. “This
woman?”

“Name was Faraday. Alisha Faraday.”

Mitch stared at the man. What reason could Alisha have for
wanting to come here? She wouldn’t have come looking for him, even if she had
known he was here.

“Why?” Mitch asked. “What business did she have here?”

“Said she was lookin’ for someone.”

Mitch stood up, his mind whirling. Alisha had been captured
by the Comanche! Damn. He had to go after her. Now.

Mitch glanced over his shoulder as his mother entered the
lodge carrying a load of wood. “
Shi ma
, would you please pack some food
for me?”

“He was guiding a woman here,” Mitch explained quickly. “I’m
going after her. There’s no time to explain now. Please, just pack me enough
food for a couple of days.”

“You must wait,” White Robe said. “Wait for Elk Chaser. He
will know what to do.”

Mitch paced the lodge. “I can’t wait!” Alisha, in the hands
of the Comanche. What would they do to her? If she was still alive, she would
be terrified. If… He pounded his fist into his palm. He couldn’t think like
that. He had to believe she was still alive or he’d go insane. Oh, Lord,
Alisha…
Please let her be all right.
“I’ve got to go after her.”

“Your ma’s right, boy. You won’t be no help to that gal
iffen you get yourself kilt trying to save her.”

“Elk Chaser won’t be back for a couple of days. I can’t wait
that long.” Mitch turned to his mother. “Do you think any of the other men
would go with me?”

“Why are you so concerned for this woman?” White Robe asked.

“It’s Alisha. You remember her? The preacher’s daughter.”

“Ah,” White Robe said, a knowing look in her eye. “Yes, I
remember her.”

“You know her?” Clements asked. “Was she coming here to see
you?”

Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think so. There’s no way she
would have known I was here.”

White Robe frowned. “Why else would she come here?”

“I don’t know.” Mitch looked at Clements. “Did she tell you
why she wanted to come here?”

“Claimed she had family here.”

“Family?” Mitch frowned. “What family?”

“She didn’t say. I thought it was passing strange that a
lady like her would have kin living with the ‘Pache…” Clements looked up at
White Robe. “No offense meant, missus.”

White Robe nodded.

Clements took a deep breath. “Give me a few minutes to pull
myself together, Garret, and I’ll side ya.”

“
Ciye
…”

“I’ve got to go,
Shi ma
.” He had to go after Alisha
now, had to feel like he was doing something. He couldn’t just sit and wait.
He’d go crazy. Even though he knew striking out on his own was a damn fool
thing to do, he couldn’t wait for Elk Chaser to return, couldn’t wait until
Clements was able to travel. He was a fair tracker, and he knew the general
direction the Comanches were headed. And there was a chance, however slim, that
one man, acting alone, would be more effective than a dozen warriors.

“Tell Elk Chaser where I’ve gone,” Mitch said.

“
Ciye,
wait.” White Robe stuffed several chunks of
jerky and a dozen ashcakes in a buckskin bag and thrust it into his hands, along
with a canteen that was stamped with the insignia of the U.S. Cavalry.

“
Ashoge, shi ma.”
He hugged his mother, grabbed his
weapons, and left the lodge.

It only took a few minutes to cut his horse out of the herd,
a couple more to saddle the bay. And then he was riding southeast, toward the
land of the Comanche.

Chapter Seventeen

Fear. It was the dampness on her palms, the cold sweat
trickling down her spine, the sick feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. She
stared at the rawhide thong that bound her wrists together. Why hadn’t she
listened to Roger when he told her to stay home? If she hadn’t insisted on
making this journey, Red Clements would still be alive. Regret filled her heart
when she thought of Mr. Clements’ families. She choked back a sob. His wives
and children would never know what had happened to him. Her friends would never
know what had happened to her.

She glanced at the warriors riding on either side of her.
What a ninny she had been. She had lived her whole life in the Southwest. She knew
how dangerous the Indians were. She had read numerous accounts of stagecoaches
and outlying ranches being attacked by marauding Indians. The Apaches had been
on the warpath for the last seven years, ever since Cochise had been accused of
kidnapping a local rancher’s child and stealing the rancher’s stock.

She had only been sixteen at the time. She remembered how
upset Mitch had been when the local paper described the incident, calling
Cochise a murdering savage. Though Mitch had never met Cochise, he had a great
respect for the Apache chief. Mitch had told her that in an attempt to prove
his innocence, Cochise had met with an Army officer named Lieutenant Bascomb a
short distance from the Overland Mail Station. Cochise had proclaimed his
innocence and offered to try to find out who had kidnapped the boy and, if
possible, to return both the boy and the cattle. Bascomb had informed Cochise
that he and those with him would be held as hostages until the boy was returned
to his family. Cochise had drawn his knife and slashed his way out of the tent.
Returning to the Apache stronghold, he quickly gathered a bunch of warriors and
returned to the station where the meeting with Bascomb had been held and had
taken the hostler, a driver and a third man captive. Cochise had then offered
to trade his hostages for his own people. Bascomb refused to make the exchange
unless the boy was also returned. Cochise had again declared he knew nothing of
the boy’s whereabouts and when Bascomb refused to believe him, Cochise left the
station. He returned two days later, his face painted for war, and leading one
of the hostages. The hostage pleaded with the lieutenant, begging Bascomb to
free Cochise’s people, but Bascomb refused. Angered by the lieutenant’s
refusal, Cochise had dragged his prisoner to death.