Apache Moon (21 page)

There was no time to waste, for no one knew what
enemies the shots might attract. The warriors roved through the cave, slitting throats to make certain that the renegades were truly wiped out. Then they heaped everything flammable in the middle of the floor and set it afire. The rags, firewood, and baskets blazed as the warriors ran back to their horses. They mounted up and rode hard toward the first red sliver of dawn as a trail of smoke arose from the mouth of the cave.

T
HE WOMEN CHANTED AND FASTED INTO
the morning, while Phyllis passed from hunger to numbed stupefaction. There were moments when she caught herself mumbling incoherently. Children watched their mothers solemnly, while old men hovered in the background, recalling lost battles and fallen comrades.

Apache superstition seemed absurd to Phyllis. She could see no linkage between female behavior and warriors on a raid. Yet they believed in the power of prayer, like Christians. If I ever get out of this, I'll write about my life with them so that people will know the truth.

She realized that she was talking to herself again, while the others glared at her reproachfully. She stiffened her spine and returned to the steady rhythm. The Apache women felt connected to their men across vast distances, without the walls that the White Eyes constructed. They're a spiritual people, and everything they do has religious significance, Phyllis realized. But women work too hard. She looked at her hands, dark and callused. Her body had hardened, the sun had baked her face, and she had a permanent ache in her back from working animal skins.

They heard the cries of little boys in the direction of the secret path, and the women arose, smiles spreading over their faces. A chill came over Phyllis because she feared that Duane had been killed in the raid. She drifted with the other women toward the edge of the encampment and saw warriors climbing the trail, leading their horses. Phyllis couldn't discern Duane among them, and her heart sank.

The women made a weird ululating sound as the warriors drew closer. It appeared that the raid had been successful as children danced and clapped their hands gleefully. Phyllis spotted Delgado leading the warriors and relief spread over the mountaintop. It appeared that there were no casualties so far, but the warriors looked as if they'd seen the face of hell.

Then, toward the end of the long file, Phyllis spotted Duane. He appeared unharmed, but gravity could be seen in his every move. Phyllis's vision returned to
Delgado, and she wondered how one woman could desire two men. If these people knew what was in my mind, they'd burn me at the stake.

The warriors herded their horses into the corral as Phyllis compared Duane and Delgado. When she and Duane first arrived in the Apache camp, a huge gulf had existed between Duane and Delgado, but now they blurred together in her estimation. Somehow Duane had become a warrior, as formidable as any of them. There was something exceptional about him, and she considered him fascinating, but she had to admit that she'd prefer a man with practical habits, not one who thought he was an Apache warrior, the Pecos Kid, and God only knew what else.

Phyllis had liked the novelty of Apache life at first, but now the only thing that made it bearable was Duane. He finished with his horse and walked toward her like a warrior lord. When he drew close, she noticed dark flecks of dried blood on his white breechcloth. The expression in his eyes bore mute testimony to a tremendous ordeal. “Are you all right, Duane?”

He didn't reply and appeared deeply troubled. She placed her arm around his waist and urged him toward their wickiup. Dried blood also showed on the handle of his knife, while his war club carried suspicious stains. Duane had undergone another transformation, she realized, and he reminded her of Confederate soldiers who'd returned home from the war, with the same blank expression in their eyes. Duane and Phyllis
crawled inside the wickiup, he wrapped his arms around her and they lay side by side, holding each other tightly.

Duane tried to make sense of what had happened to him. The former acolyte and scholar had busted heads with his war club and emptied his Colt into Jamata.
Thou Shalt Not Kill.

“Are you sure you're all right?” she asked.

Duane held her closely, feeding off her warmth and strength. The renegades were degraded and degenerate, but what am I? he wondered. Their cave was the Apache Sodom and Gomorrah. “I've killed some people, and I'm not sure what it means.”

“If you didn't stop them, they might've killed more women, including
me.
I prayed for you with the other women, and I've been thinking that it's time we left here. We're not Apaches, and this isn't our life-way.”

“We'll talk about it tomorrow,” he replied. Their lips touched, because no matter how confused he was, or how irrational the world became, she was his anchor to reality. Together they sank into animal skills, removing each other's clothes.

In the middle of the night, Duane awoke with a start. Phyllis lay with her cheek against his shoulder as coyotes howled in the distance. He'd been dreaming about Jamata, the evil sorcerer of the renegades.
What kind of people could become so depraved? he wondered. Why'd they turn their backs on their holy lifeway?

The question burned into the mind of the former seminary student, for it went to the core of evil, original sin, and the devil. It seemed incomprehensible that people wouldn't fear divine retribution. He saw the power of God as a palpable force everywhere and couldn't understand why others didn't recognize what was so obvious to him. The renegades evidently believed that nothing was greater than their own dark appetites.
Woe to you, generation of vipers.
But it's dangerous to think that you're an instrument of God's judgment. The more Duane probed alleys of his mind, the more confused he became. He wanted something to base his life upon but found thin ice instead.

Phyllis made a cooing sound and moved closer to him. Her bare breast jutted against his bare chest, and the troublesome dilemma weakened before the onslaught of her generous warmth. The skin on her back was impossibly smooth. He cupped her breast in his hand.

“What're you doing?” she asked sleepily.

He touched his tongue to her nipple, she placed her hand on the back of his head, a nighthawk squawked as it flew overhead, and insects sang madrigals in the moonlight.

Duane woke up several hours later and heard the ruckus of the Apache camp around him. A column of bright sunlight shone through the smoke hole, utensils clanged, children shouted, and dogs barked. Duane lay on his side, with Phyllis's back snuggled against him. He realized that all was well with the world.

“There's something I want to talk with you about,” she said.

She had that nagging tone in her voice, and Duane realized that the tender moment was coming to an end. He was amazed at how she could be warm one moment, cold the next, distracted, concentrated, a creature of many moods, not all pretty. It felt as if their cozy wickiup had become a lawyer's office. “What is it?” he inquired.

“I'd really like to get out of here.”

He wanted to explain that there was much the Apaches could teach them, and the lifeway had a beautiful simplicity, but she hadn't responded to those arguments in the past. “Just a few more days,” he muttered. “What's your hurry?”

“I've got a pain in my back that won't go away, and we've already been here a month. Look at the lines in my face. Another few years of this, I'll be an old lady! I love you, but I want to go back to Texas.”

“I thought we were on our way to Mexico.”

“If I know my father, he's hired the best lawyer available. You're probably cleared by now, and I'll bet that the law has forgotten about us. Nobody'll ever
convict you for shooting Otis Puckett in self-defense.”

“Innocent men have been hung before,” he advised her, “and my father was probably one of them. I'm not going back until somebody shows me a piece of paper that says the charges against me have been dropped.” He pulled away from her and reached for his breechcloth.

“Where are you going now?”

“To a special ceremony, otherwise the spirits of the dead will haunt us. It's called the Washing of the Weapons.”

He believes that primitive nonsense, she thought, watching him beneath hooded eyes as he pulled on his moccasin boots, tied his gun belt, and adjusted his headband. Then he picked up his bloodied war club and knife. “I should be back in time for dinner.” He kissed her cheek and crawled out of the wickiup.

Alone, she lay in the darkness, listening to the retreat of his footsteps. It's like being married to a tumbleweed.

The warriors rode to a stream in a nearby canyon and lined up at the bank. All remained mounted except Cucharo, who waded into the whirling waters until he was knee deep. He spread out his arms, looked at the horizon, and chanted a litany of prayers to the mountain spirits. Then he proceeded to wash himself and his weapons, while continuing incantations.

It was a clear day, the sky cloudless. Birds darted from flower to flower, the desert blooming with the promise of summer. Duane sat on his horse near the end of the line, and it reminded him of mass at the monastery in the clouds.

Cucharo sloshed toward Delgado, the first Apache at the beginning of the line. Delgado held out his lance and knife and Cucharo accepted them. The
diyin
bent, washed the weapons in the stream, and blew upon them, while Delgado intoned his prayer of contrition.

Cucharo passed down the row of warriors, repeating the ceremony with each man, and Duane couldn't help seeing parallels to confession, holy communion, and baptism. The
di-yin
then splashed toward Duane, who held out his knife and war club. Cucharo lowered them into the cloudy, meandering waters, like Easter mass when the abbot washed the feet of the acolytes. Duane felt deeply moved by Cucharo's devotion as he joined chants for divine forgiveness and understanding. He felt a glow pass from Cucharo's hand to his as he accepted his cleansed weapons.
Forgive me, Father, for I know not what I do.

Cucharo worked his way to the end of the line. It was a hard job for an old man, but he never faltered, his voice maintaining its steady drone. After absolving the last warrior, Cucharo returned to his horse. He opened a saddlebag, removed the scalp of Jamata, scratched a match on a nearby rock, and brought the
flame to the blood-caked black hair. Smoke rose into the air as the hair caught fire. Cucharo watched it burn, his mouth set in a grim line. Then, when the flame licked his fingers, he tossed the scalp into the water, and the eddies carried it away.

It appeared that the ceremony was over. The Apaches pulled away from the stream and headed back to their camp. Duane remembered White Painted Woman, the lion, and his grandfather atop Gold Mountain. Surely the universe is sanctified, he thought, whether you call him God, Yusn, or Allah.

The warriors returned their horses to the corral, and Duane found Phyllis in front of their wickiup, cooking a stew of antelope meat, roots, and cornmeal. She glowered at him as he approached and began at the identical spot where she'd left off. “Do you think we can leave tomorrow morning?”

“I like it here,” he replied. “I wish we didn't have to go.”

“I miss my family, and I'm tired of the work. I never realized that you were so selfish.”

“You're upset because you've got too much work. Maybe I should marry another woman, to help you.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “So that's it! You just want another woman. Well, I'm not sharing you with anybody!”

“It wouldn't be a real marriage where I'd sleep with her,” he explained. “She'd just help you with the work, that's all. Maybe you and she could become friends.”

“I'm a Texan, and my father owns a ranch. I don't want to live like an Apache any longer. If you don't come back with me, I'll go myself.”

Duane believed that God had ordained her to be his mate for life, but he loved the holy lifeway, too. The decision required a Solomon, but he was only the Pecos Kid. He looked at the swell of her breasts, the curve of her leg, and saw the scale tip slightly in her favor. “All right,” he said sullenly. “I'll escort you back to the Bar T, if that's what you want. The federal marshals will probably hang me, but that's the way it goes.”

“I don't want you doing anything out of obligation. If you don't love me, have the courage to say so. I'm sure that Delgado would escort me back to safety.”

Duane glanced at her sharply. “I said that I'll do it, so forget about Delgado. It's true that I'll miss this place, but you're more important to me than anything else. We can start packing right now.”

“If only I could believe that.”

“We'll leave first thing in the morning. I was a cowboy once and I can be a cowboy again. If the judge hangs me, I'm sure you'll provide a decent funeral.”

“Nobody's going to hang you. You're worried about nothing. I'm certain that my father's lawyer has shot holes through the charges against you.”