Apache Moon (18 page)

Big Al Thornton sat in his office, smoked a cigar, and looked out the window at the Milky Way blazing across the sky. Where is she now? he wondered.

He couldn't stop thinking about his darling daughter, whom he believed had died of thirst in the desert. The mere image of her suffering made him weak in his knees. He'd lost twenty pounds, his clothes hung on him, and his expression was grim.

I knew Duane Braddock was trouble the first time I set eyes on him, Big Al thought. He got my daughter killed, and there ain't a damned thing I can do about it. Sometimes Big Al wanted to put a bullet into Duane Braddock's head, although he figured that Duane had been killed, too. He was just a wild-ass kid who wouldn't back down, and my daughter thought he was the best thing that ever happened to Texas. If the Apaches didn't get them, the sun did, or the Comancheros,
banditos, renegade miners, or lost, wandering outlaw bands.

Big Al grumbled to himself as he walked down the hall to Phyllis's bedroom. He opened the door, lit her lamp, and gazed sadly at her shelves of books. Her clothes hung in the closet and an old Navaho doll lay on her pillow. Big Al touched the floral bedspread, and a tear came to his eye. Sons of bitches live forever, but my daughter had to die.

It was night on the desert as Marshal Dan Stowe and Miguelito rode along a winding arroyo. They'd been in the saddle since late afternoon, and Miguelito said they'd arrive in the Apache camp sometime tomorrow.

Marshal Stowe sagged in his saddle, dozing lightly, as he let Miguelito lead the way. Sometimes he thought that Miguelito was luring him into a trap where the Apaches would massacre him, steal his horses, and leave his bones to bleach. The most nagging part was that Marshal Stowe didn't have to be there. He could've reported that Duane Braddock disappeared into Mexico, but the lawman had never filed a false report in his life.

He dozed as his horse plodded onward. It reminded him of long night marches during the war and the constant danger from Confederate sharpshooters. Now Honest Abe was dead, General Grant's administration
was the most corrupt in American history, and controversy buzzed around General Custer's recent campaigns against the Plains Indians, which some considered massacres.

We were young gods of war, but now we're ordinary people again, Marshal Stowe thought philosophically. I guess glory doesn't last forever, and I should be thankful that I've got a job. If Duane Braddock is living with the Apaches, I'll take him into custody, and if the girl is there, I'll bring her out. And if the Apaches try to kill me, all I can do is go down like a soldier.

T
HE LOST DETACHMENT WANDERED ACROSS
the desert as the sun blasted them unmercifully. They were covered with perspiration, throats parched, eyes hollow, cheeks sunken. A garland of buzzards circled the sky, and purple mountains lined the plain. A mesa stood in the distance like a grotesque monument to a forgotten god.

The detachment was headed in a northerly direction, hoping to find their last water hole, but each man knew it was far away, and they might never reach it. Dazed by the sun, tongues swollen, they fought their way through cactus needles that ripped their clothes
and flesh. Every step was agony as they watched for Apaches and prayed for miracles.

Lieutenant Dawes no longer could lie to himself as death lurked straight ahead. They'd become imperiled due to his own heedless folly, false pride, and low jealousy. Weakened by lack of food and water, guilt assailed him as his pants were shredded by thorns, his knees lost their bounce, and his broad shoulders drooped. He placed one foot in front of the other, although he knew that every movement was futile. But a soldier keeps advancing despite illness, wounds, doubts, confusion, and enemy fire.

He looked over his shoulder at cavalry troopers straggling behind him in a column of twos. Bearded, ragged, and demoralized, they wanted to shoot him in the back, and he couldn't blame them. His fancy West Point education hadn't amounted to much in Apache territory, and now he knew how Napoleon felt at Waterloo after Wellington's cavalry split his lines in the victory charge. Not only was he dying of thirst, but he felt like a failure.

He wanted to collapse onto the ground, never to move again, but a West Point officer can't disintegrate in front of his men. He hallucinated the castellated walls and emerald lawns at the renowned military academy on the Hudson. It was a grand charade, with form-fitting uniforms and blaring bands, but it hadn't prepared him for fighting the Apache in the desert of south Texas.

Whatever made me think that I could lead men in
battle? he asked himself dreamily. The desert shimmered before him as Vanessa Fontaine advanced spectrally across the shifting sands. She wore the identical green dress as on the day he'd first seen her outside Gibson's General Store in Shelby. He'd fallen madly in love with her, never suspecting that the golden goddess would lead him to doom in southwest Texas.

“Gawd dammit!” shouted Private Cruikshank behind him. “Maybe I'm a-gonna die—but the son of a bitch who brought me here is a-gonna die first!”

Lieutenant Dawes turned and saw the soldiers arrayed against him. Cruikshank had drawn his service revolver and was pointing it at the middle of Dawes's chest.

Dawes was delirious as he staggered from side to side. He recalled Napoleon stopped by the king's soldiers on the Paris road after returning from his first exile. Lieutenant Dawes raised his trembling sunburnt hands and tore open his shirt, baring his chest. “If you want to shoot your commanding officer in cold blood, here I stand.”

A shot rang out, and for an instant Lieutenant Dawes thought he'd been killed. But he was still standing, and no ugly red hole appeared in the middle of his chest. Smoke rose from the barrel of Sergeant Mahoney's gun, who aimed it at the sky. “There'll be no more of that,” he said in a deadly tone. “The next shot'll be ‘twixt yer goddamned eyes, young private!”

The desert fell silent as the men looked at each
other in dismay. All their marching, training, target practice, and spit and polish didn't amount to anything in the Texas desert. Cruikshank mumbled darkly as he holstered his gun. “If it wasn't fer that son of a bitch, we wouldn't be hyar.”

All eyes turned to Lieutenant Dawes, who replied in a dry, cracked voice, “We've got to hold together and try to help each other reach safety. It's the only way.”

Corporal Hazelwood spat at the ground. “We're finished, and everybody knows it. That fancy-pants bastard brought us, and we oughtta shoot ‘im!”

“You're right,” Dawes replied. “But if you kill me, you're stuck here anyway. And if the guards had been more vigilant, we'd be fine. I think we should die as comrades in arms, instead of shooting each other in the back like hooligans. We may not be good men, but at least we can be good soldiers.”

Weasellike Private Witherspoon said snidely, “I should've deserted while I had the chance.”

Lieutenant Dawes thought he'd appeal to their finer sensibilities. “I think we should bow our heads and ask for God's guidance.”

“If there's a God,” replied Private Cunningham, a redheaded ex-farmer from Missouri, “He would never've let us in this mess in the first place. We're stove up, and there's no way out.”

“I think,” Lieutenant Dawes said, “there are some here who still believe with me in the power of prayer.
Gather around, men, and let's ask our creator for divine assistance.”

They bowed their heads, lips cracked, noses peeling, eyes bloodshot. “Dear God,” said Lieutenant Dawes, “have mercy on your poor Christian soldiers.”

They stood in silence, thinking of lost loves, squandered dreams, and crushing failures. They knew they were the dregs of the earth, for why else had they joined the frontier army, to fight Apaches instead of becoming carpenters, farmers, mechanics, scriveners, businessmen, or even priests. Each reflected upon the path that had brought them to southwest Texas, where coyotes and buzzards followed at a safe distance, waiting for them to drop.

They heard a cry from Private Duckworth: “Water!” He was their point man, roving far ahead of the main unit, searching for whatever he could find. Their ears perked up, and they heard his parched voice again. “Water!”

They couldn't believe their ears. Was it a false echo from a far-off cave? They looked at each other in alarm, and then, as if driven by a single will, they headed toward Private Duckworth, images of cool trickling liquid on their tongues. They rampaged through clumps of cactus and scatterings of grama grass. “Water!” The voice came closer, and they could see green cottonwood trees in the distance.

“We're saved!” shouted Private Cruikshank.

Lieutenant Dawes believed that God had answered
his prayer. It was a sign from heaven, just as God parted the Red Sea for the wandering Israelites. The men began to run, tongues hanging like dogs'. They stumbled over rocks, roots, and gopher holes as they made their way to the oasis in the middle of the desert. Suddenly they'd been given the gift of life!

Lieutenant Dawes tried to contain himself, but his throat was like sand, and his legs moved of their own volition. All he wanted was to bury his face in the water and drink deeply. Then they could hunt meat and become soldiers again. “I told you, boys—we'll get through this if we just hold together!”

They came to cottonwood trees, and the temperature dropped as the water came into view. Grass and shrubs surrounded the hole, interspersed with bare desert sand. Private Duckworth was already on his belly, his face in the water, drinking deeply. The bluecoat soldiers stumbled down the incline, dropped to their knees, lowered their faces into the water, and slaked their leathery throats with ambrosia.

Lieutenant Dawes gulped thirstily. Thank you, God, for your wonderful blessing. You've shown mercy to a sinner, and if we ever make it back to civilization, I'll become a minister of your Holy Word.

He saw himself as a bumbling lecherous fool who'd finally found the truth. I'll preach sermons of piety and redemption, based on my own personal experiences, and deter people from the hellish paths that I myself have trod.

It was the last coherent thought that Lieutenant Dawes had as a rushing sound came to him from the far side of the well. He raised his head and was stunned by the sight of Apaches in war paint bursting out of the ground, with knives, lances, and war clubs in their hands. Sergeant Mahoney shouted the alarm, and Lieutenant Dawes was reaching for his service revolver when an Apache slammed him in the middle of the forehead with a war club. Lieutenant Dawes's skull cracked down the middle, blood seeped out the edges, and he collapsed onto the ground.

The bluecoat soldiers were slaughtered in seconds, their blood flowing in rivulets into the deep dark waters of the well. The Apache renegades stripped away weapons, clothing, Lieutenant Dawes's gold tooth, and everything else of value. They plundered and mutilated like fiends, and their leader was Jamata, the evil sorcerer.

Jamata cut off the officer's penis and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he disemboweled him, guts spilling onto the ground like angry, bloodsoaked snakes. Finally he cut off a patch of the officer's hair as a trophy.

The other renegades did the same. They were the dregs of the Apache nation, and they'd denounced their holy lifeway for rape, murder, and pillage. They'd plotted the route of the soldiers for days, knew the bluecoats would find the water hole, and dug themselves into the ground, to wait patiently for their arrival.

They worked methodically at their gruesome task,
until all the soldiers were butchered. Then they gathered up the booty and carried it to the gully where their horses were tethered. They mounted up and retreated into the desert as silently as they'd come. Soon they were gone, and circling buzzards swooped leisurely from the sky for the fabulous fresh meat spread before them. Like gentlemen in black formal suits and orange boots, they settled amid the corpses and dug their beaks into tender body parts.

Gootch had seen it all from a cave cut into a nearby mountain. He was one of a group of scouts spread out across the desert, watching, studying, and waiting for the renegades to show their faces. He knew that good Apaches would be blamed for the bloody deed, more bluecoat soldiers would come to the land, there would be war, and Gootch could see no end to it.

But the war was a long way off. Now his task was to follow the renegades back to their camp, so he could report its location to Chief Pinotay. Extreme caution was required, because the renegades were Apaches, too, with the same knowledge and skills as he. Gootch watched them ride across the rolling desert and waited patiently. He didn't want to get too close, for they might detect his presence.

The flames of vengeance burned hotly within him, for one of his sisters had been killed in the previous massacre. He yearned for the opportunity to slice off
Jamata's head. Meanwhile his cave was silent, dank, and smelled of old coyote manure. Gootch's father had brought him here as a boy, for it was a good observation post. The People knew every water hole, cave, and hiding spot in Arizona, New Mexico, southwest Texas, and Mexico, while the White Eyes wandered around like fools. Gootch couldn't help feeling contempt for the bluecoat soldiers who'd let themselves be slaughtered so easily. The Apache warrior believed that they lacked inner strength, because of the way they raised their children. When a White Eyes baby cried, the grown-ups tried to soothe him, but when an Apache baby was out of sorts, they hung his cradleboard on a tree and let him cry himself out. Gootch thought that the White Eyes spoiled their children, and that's why they grew fragile.